Elsewhen, and elsewhere
by The Lycanthrope
Summary: The pirate vessel Free Enterprise has preyed on Imperial shipping for years, but when the battlebarge sent to bring it to heel is dragged 38,000 years into the past, the existence of the Imperium is threatened. In the 3rd, as well as the 41st millennium.
1. In the beginning

Klaxons continued to wail, and red lights flashed out their strobing warnings. The vessel shook and a console exploded, showering the corridor with white-blue sparks, and belching a fresh wave of smoke into the already choked passageway. A crewman bustled past the smouldering wreckage that had once been a control console, coughing scorched lungs out from his soot-blackened lips. The crewman ignored the flaring dataport. And the two corpses adjacent to it. There were other priorities. The ship shook again, the forceful tremor that ran throughout the length of the ship a testament to the strength of the armour… that salvo had a force most conveniently measures in gigatons.

The siren's tone changed, the pitch dropping half an octave. The crewman noted the fact, -the life support in this section was back online- but did not respond, while he hurriedly welded to resecure a crucial section of the hull plating. If it collapsed, the whole deck would be isolated.

The view from outside the ship was markedly different. Two ships drifted through space alongside each other, exchanging broadsides. The crewman was aboard the smaller of the two ships. It was gunmetal grey, and had its bridge amidships, set above the barrel of a large spinal mounted nova cannon. It was long and low, and, when coupled with its oversize engines, the ship positively screamed "raider". And, indeed, it was. The _Free Enterprise_ had preyed on Imperial shipping lanes throughout the region for years, and its crew were experienced, and ruthless.

They'd just had the bad luck to drop out of warp right in front of an Imperial Battlebarge. The Captain of which was more than happy that they had done just that. The _Sword of Lycurgas_ had been chasing the _Free Enterprise_ for six months. It's attacks on trade in the sector had been frustrating enough that the Imperial Navy had requested assistance from the Adeptus Astartes. The Deathbringers chapter, confident of a quick success, had tasked the _Sword of Lycurgas_ to bring the pirate vessel to heel. But it had proven surprisingly elusive.

No more. As had been planned, the first titanic volley of fire had struck the raider with its shields down, in a number of locations, but primarily on the aft port quarter. Half of its engines were offline. Its slow attempt to run was being matched by the normally ponderous Battlebarge. And the _Free Enterprise_ was taking a hiding. It's normally impressive firepower was designed to cripple or overawe trading vessels. Not Battlebarges. The _Sword of Lycurgas_'s shields had barely fluctuated since the engagement began, and it's starboard batteries continued to pummel the smaller ship relentlessly.

Brother-Captain Edward Haruman watched the exchange from the bridge with satisfaction. Occasionally the weapons batteries of the _Free Enterprise_ would give telltale muzzle-flashes, heralding waves of high-energy projectiles, laser cannon blasts or particle beams, capable of destroying hab units with each hit. But while the _Sword _would sometimes shudder slightly, there was never any damage. For which Haruman was glad. Although he had spent nearly three hundred years fighting the enemies of the Emperor across the galaxy, he had only been given command of the 2nd Company nine months ago, upon the death of its previous commander, Brother-Captain Emmanuel Richards. He'd been a good man, and loyal servant of the Emperor.

But Haruman was not happy that on his first tasking, aboard one of the chapter's heaviest combat vessels, it had taken him six months to accomplish a task that would, in normal circumstances, have been tasked to the Imperial Navy. But with the recent campaigns along the edge of the Eye of Terror, to the galactic north, the Navy was stretched thin. And, by fortuitous coincidence, the Imperial fleet units that had requested Adeptus Astartes assistance had asked just as the _Sword_ was transiting back to Lycurgas from its battles along the Cadian gate.  
The Navy was more than delighted that a Battlebarge had been allocated to the problem. As far as they'd been concerned, that was the end of their problem. But it had taken the _Sword_ six long, frustrating months to track the _Free Enterprise_ down, and the Navy had started to get impatient. As had Haruman. But, at long last, they had the accursed vessel in their sights, literally and figuratively, and, by the Emperor, they were going to let them have it.

Haruman looked to his right, at Bondsman-Captain David Ramsey. The man was the actual commander of the _Sword of Lycurgas_, a peculiarity of command shared by most marine chapters. The Space Marines themselves are a combatant force, and their officers and men fight on foot, or mounted in vehicles. Their spacegoing craft are crewed and commanded by personnel "bonded" to the chapter. Servants, by another name. Thus, technically, the lowest scout marine was senior to the highest officer of the fleet. Of course, in practice, the Space Marine heirachy recognised the command talents and special knowledge and experience possessed of the senior officers, and tended to allow them freedom of action within their considerable authority and expertise.  
The ship's commander was directing his vessel's destruction of the other with his usual aplomb. Though younger than Haruman, Ramsey had been commander of warships for nearly twenty five years, and had previously, and famously, captained the Strike Cruiser _Leonidas_ during the Beta Mithrax campaign. Ramsey thus had infinitely more experience in the intricacies of ship-to-ship combat.

"Starboard lances, shift focus from main drive to port lances." A chorus of acknowledgments came back over the ship's internal communications net. The actual destruction of the raider was child's play. It was more akin to fighting an over-size target drone than a true combatant. There were very few vessels that could exchange broadsides with a battlebarge, and a raider, even an up-gunned one like the _Free Enterprise_ wasn't one of them. Within minutes, the raider's port weapons had stopped firing.  
"Port lances inoperative, sir. Port batteries also inoperative." Bondsman-Lieutenant Commander Lucretius reported. As weapons control officer, it was his task to ensure that the targets assigned to him by the Captain were hit, and as efficiently as possible.  
"Manoeuvring thrusters." Ramsey responded.  
Seconds later two of the _Sword_'s four starboard lances fired, plasma reaching out and slamming into the stricken vessel. Ten more seconds went past, and then a third lance fired.  
"Thrusters down, sir". The destruction of the port thrusters severely hampered the raider's agility. For all intents and purposes, the battle was over. Sure enough, within minutes the raid began to list to port, its starboard stabilisation thrusters overcompensating.  
"Brother Captain, the enemy has been subdued. We stand ready." Ramsey reported, a slight twinkle in his eye the only outwards sign of the pride he no doubt felt.

Haruman weighed his options. He was glad that they'd finally reached this point. Satisfied that the last six months of endeavour had not been wasted. And he dearly wanted to draw his powersword and carve a bloody swathe through what was left of the _Free Enterprise_ for wasting the _Sword_'s time. And, more to the point, for tying up an entire company of Space Marines, troops that were sorely needed elsewhere.  
But, by the same token, any casualties that may be sustained would take away those self-same forces from potential future engagements. Haruman chuckled to himself, watching as the raider began a slow circle to port, out of sync thrusters sending the crippled vessel spinning about its axis. He had a responsibility to ensure the fighting strength of his company was preserved.  
"Send their souls to the Emp…"

He was interrupted by an urgent sounding call from one of the bridge officers.  
"Bondsman-Captain, their rate of turn has increased, and their main sub-warp engines are accelerating".  
The _Free Enterprise_ had stopped its slow drift through space, had fired its starboard thrusters with dangerous force, and swung its bow straight towards the _Sword_. With no way of halting or correcting its turn, the smaller ship continued to spin, sliding towards the larger vessel.  
Captain Ramsey reacted quickly, his voice cutting through the stunned looks of the bridge crew.  
"Engines, full reverse, helm, hard-a-port, down 15 degrees. All starboard batteries, target the bridge, and fire at will."  
The bridge suddenly came alive again at the first real threat to the _Sword_ manifested itself. It was a suicide run. The raider, even if it hit perfectly, would be destroyed in the impact, ramming prow or not. The pirates knew full well what mercy they could expect at the hands of Imperial law. The attempt to ram the battlebarge was a last act of defiance that desperate men threw in the face of their attackers. But it was one that could cost the larger ship dearly.  
The starboard weapons fired in synchronisation, and slammed into the raider's bridge, either vapourising it or shearing it clean off the hull, it was hard to tell which. But it had happened so quickly that the raider's momentum was barely slowed.Ramsey's response was, again, fast.  
"Commander Lucretius, stop that vessel."  
"Aye, sir" Lucretius was a mustang, an officer that had been commissioned from the ranks, and a good one, with a sound technical mind. But stopping the wildly spinning raider from colliding with the _Sword _was going to be a challenge. His mind raced through the scenario. Ship spinning along its x-axis, bow to port, at high speed. Port manoeuvring thrusters and bridge out. It couldn't slow itself if it wanted to. Lucretius had to stop the spin, then push the smaller ship away. Hitting the wrong part of the ship could actually end up causing the _Sword _more damage.  
"Starboard batteries two through five, target starboard aft quarter, fire for effect, on my mark."  
The console in front of him squawked with acknowledgments a couple of seconds later. Lucretius waited for the right moment, hand poised over the intercom switch. He had to allow half a second for his crew to hear him, and depress their firing buttons, and time had appeared to slow down immensely. The raider, that had once looked so small from a distance, so small and helpless and vulnerable beneath the righteous iron heel of Imperial might, now loomed large, forbidding, and dangerous. And, if Lucretius made a mistake, it would slam into his ship, killing scores of men at the least. He watched the wreckage turn, and, to his horror, watched as the starboard side batteries of the raider began to fire. Their crew, still defiant, chose to fire their guns at the Imperial warship. The blasts shook the battlebarge once more, but the shields held comfortably, the ancient generators having endured stresses far greater in their seven millenia of service to the Emperor.  
The raider was square now, parallel to them, its stern pointing in the same direction as the _Sword_'s bow. Then, as the stern kept moving towards them, Lucretius looked down at the targeting display on his console. He wanted to hit the raider when it was at forty five degrees towards the battlebarge. But it was getting very close. Ten thousand kilometres. Eight thousand. Six thousand. Four.  
"Fire"  
The _Sword_ fire the entirety of its starboard weapons complement simultaneously, and the weapons fire impacted on target, the focused fire cutting through armour, hull and integrity fields like an axe through flesh. The _Free Enterprise_ did not stop, but slowed to a crawl, venting plasma from the hull breach in the engine room. Lucretius released a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. The _Sword_ would be able to avoid the raider. He'd stopped it. Someone patted him on the back. He put his head down and chuckled. So close, but they'd made it…  
"Sir, detecting powerful energy spike from their warp core."

Everyone paled. That last salvo must have cut through to the warp core. Detonating warp engines were one of the dreads of starship captains and crews shared regardless of where they served. Warp engines were the drives that pushed Imperial (and many non-Imperial) ships into the immaterium. THAT was what allowed for faster than light travel. But warp core breaches were hideously destructive, and uncontrolled explosions generated warp-real space overlaps that destroyed just about anything they contacted. That which wasn't destroyed was pulled into the warp, to be spat out god-knows-where, and god-knows-when. Laws of physics flatly didn't apply to the warp.

"Engines full ahead. Get us out of here."

The battlebarge's giant engines flared again and the colour changed slightly, as they slid from full reverse to full forward. But despite the phenomenal power output, the eight kilometre long warship had huge inertia, and its acceleration was very slow.  
Too slow.  
Minutes passed. The _Sword_ kept accelerating, reaching 10 the speed of light. 15. But it wasn't enough. The stricken ship vanished, as the blackness of the warp expanded outwards from its ruptured heart.  
The Raider _Free Enterprise_ had plagued the Imperium for fifteen years. Countless traders and commerce ships had fallen under its guns. And, at the last, the raider, as far as the Imperium was concerned, claimed its greatest scalp, even as death took it. The battlebarge _Sword of Lycurgas_. 


	2. From the whims of the warp

Nothingness spilt out of the gaping hole in reality itself. There was no sound, but the screams of the winds of force could almost be felt on an emotional level, the immaterium spilling out into real-space like flowing puss from a septic wound. Then, as if the warp couldn't stomach it, a scorched, bent and twisted shape came sliding out of the rupture, spinning about its own axis. Minutes later, the huge maw of the warp/real-space overlap closed up, collapsing in on itself and vanishing, the blacker-than-black of warp space vanishing with an almost audible sigh, as if space-time itself was relieved at the sealing of the breach in its serene walls.

The over-lap had occurred within the Romulan-Federation Neutral Zone. An area of space where large scale energy fluctuations were all but guaranteed to attract attention. The recent _Scimitar_ incident had frayed nerves on both sides of the border, even while both sides breathed sighs of relief at the conduct and restraint of the other's military forces.

The D'Deridex class vessel _Minkash'maen _was the nearest, at closest point of approach on the Romulan edge of the neutral zone. Romulan sensor arrays, as a rule of thumb, remained fractionally behind their Federation counterparts. But a 20th century shuttle could have detected the massive surge of energy coming from within the neutral zone. The _Minkash'maen_ came to a complete stop in less than a minute, and swung its bow towards the rift like a pointer marking a hare. Its orders were specific. Patrol the edge of the neutral zone. Do not cross into it, save in hot pursuit of retreating hostile vessels. Report any discrepancies. This was very definitely a discrepancy.

On the other side of the neutral zone, the USS _Intrepid_ was further away, but had been given similar orders. With another addition. Monitor the activity of Romulan vessels on along the patrol route, and report their movements, with as much accuracy as possible. And events like a subspace distortion of that size, coupled with a Romulan battlecruiser looking like a stunned mullet was report-worthy. The _Intrepid _roared in at warp 8, screaming up to the edge of the neutral zone. Then stopped. They had the same problem. Orders prohibiting them from entering the neutral zone. So they waited. The Romulans for orders from high command. The Federation for the arrival of the _Enterprise_.

The _Enterprise_ was the Federation's trouble-shooter. Often literally. The Sovereign-class vessel was one of the Federation's very few purpose warships, and had the specifications that would be expected of a heavy combatant such as it was. Type XII phasers. Quantum torpedoes. Lots of both of the above. Big. Fast. Agile. Hard as a rock and with a kick like an angry mule.

Picard knew that about his ship. He'd captained it for long enough that he could, almost literally, walk its corridors blindfolded. What he didn't know was what had the _Intrepid_ so concerned that they'd requested immediate support. And why Starfleet Command was being so cagey about letting them know the situation. In fact, Starfleet Command's brief to Picard had been curt, and Admiral Janeway had looked haggard. Given the Admiral's first hand experience of some extremely dangerous situations over the course of her much publicised seven year jaunt through the delta quadrant, her expression had caused as much worry as the orders that had come along with it. Proceed to the Neutral Zone at best speed. Rendezvous with the _Intrepid_. Meet with Captain Keenan, and assume command of the situation. Exercise your discretion to resolve the situation as best you are able. Keep Command informed.

It sounded specific. But it wasn't. It basically told him to go to the neutral zone and sort out the mess that was… whatever had command on edge. He still didn't know what it was. He'd find out soon enough, he thought to himself, as he stepped onto the turbolift.

"Bridge". He took the time to smooth down the front of his uniform, and adjust his collar. The fabric still itched. Years of wearing the blasted thing and it still itched. But he'd forget about it, as he always did. He walked onto the bridge, and walked down to the command chair.

"Report"

The officer of the watch, Lieutenant Brennaman, stood from the command station, and moved up to the weapons station, as he began to give his report.

"We're maintaining warp nine point five, on course for the neutral zone. Estimated rendezvous time with the _Intrepid_ is thirty-five minutes. As you ordered, all personnel are at their stations, and shields are up."  
Picard nodded curtly. He'd expected as much, but the report was no mere formality. And deviations from that which was expected could have serious repercussions, but if they were known then they could be dealt with.

"Thank you, Lieutenant." He looked around. Capable men and women, all of them. But none of them were the same faces he'd worked with so closely for so many years. But, as he always had, he'd do his job. And officers weren't posted to the Federation's flagship without being particularly good at their job. And with the hugely proud name borne by this ship, candidates almost fought to get on board this ship.  
The crew wasn't what worried him, although he had yet to fully take their measure. What worried Jean-Luc far, far more was the content of the briefing that was awaiting them upon their rendezvous with the _Intrepid_.

The USS _Intrepid_ was the first of the Intrepid-class ships, the most famous of which being the _Voyager_, upon which Admiral Janeway had made her name. A medium-weight reconnaissance vessel, the Intrepid class was designed for long-range patrol, interdiction and light attack. Smaller and lighter than most Federation classes, it packed a surprising punch, and was exceptionally responsive and manoeuvrable. And, in this case, seriously out-gunned by the Romulan D'Deridex class vessel on the other side of the neutral zone.

Although that was a consideration, that wasn't the centre of the _Intrepid_'s worries. What Captain Keenan was really concerned about was the mind numbingly huge construct that had been belched out of a major sub-space distortion two days ago. Sitting roughly in the middle of the neutral zone, it was the focal point of a stand-off between the two factions, neither of which being willing to violate the neutral zone. Keenan's first officer, Commander T'Marid, an unjoined Trill, remained convinced that the anomaly was a misfiring of a new Romulan weapon, possibly including a miscalculation of a matter-antimatter reaction. Closer scans would allow that question to be addressed.

But closer scans would mean violating the neutral zone. Something that Captain Keenan had specific orders NOT to do. He could hail the warbird, but he did not wish to say something that may jeopardise Captain Picard's position when he arrived. So they sat there, staring across the neutral zone at their Romulan counterpart, and awaited the arrival of the _Enterprise_.


	3. To think, a bleeding giant

Haruman's multi-lung fought the cloud of acrid smoke that flowed around the head of his command chair. His subconscious fought his conscious for control of his battered body. He lay slumped at the command chair, to the left of the Captain's, his power-armour helping to keep him upright… and consequently keep his head in the smoke.

At length, consciousness won out, and the Space Marine officer coughed and spluttered his way back to the waking world. The first thing he did was lean forward in his chair, and clear his lungs out, gagging and hacking the congealed phlegm from his two conventional lungs. He checked his plasma pistol, still secured to his right thigh, and his power-sword, still at his left hip.

He ran a self-diagnostic on his power-armour. All systems read green, to his surprise. Not even a dent. His midnight-black armour, the same armour that had seen him through centuries of the fiercest combat, wasn't even scratched. But a quick look around him revealed that not everyone was so lucky.

The _Sword of Lycurgas_ was a mess. At least, from what could be seen on the bridge. Main viewscreen was out. Not one monitor or command input console was intact. Sparks flickered intermittently from the weapons console. Lieutenant Commander Lucretius was slumped over it, half his face blackened. If he survived, he'd need surgery.

If he survived… that thought snapped Haruman out of his daze. He was the commander of this ship, and he had a duty to his men. He shifted his eyes to the ship captain's chair. It was empty, and, sure enough, Bondsman-Captain Ramsey was lying at the foot of the chair. On of his arms was bent at ninety degrees below the shoulder. A break, and a bad one.

The marine captain pulled himself to his feet, and took three steps over to the fallen ship captain, and knelt down next to him. Haruman's augmented ears picked up the ragged sound of his breathing, and the marine let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Ramsey was alive, if in bad shape. Standing up again, he reached out to the console on the panel next to the ship-commander's and pressed the ship-wide hailer.

"Medical team to the…"

The hailer was dead. Haruman tried again, with the same response. Then he tried his power-armour's comm-system.

"All points, this is two-zero-alpha. Comms check, over".

Ten seconds went past. Nothing. Not one word back, nor the hiss of static. Haruman grumbled a curse, and administered the ritual bang to the top of his power-armoured chest. Right above the comm-unit, then tried again.

"All points, this is two-zero-alpha. Comms check, over".

This time, the responses came in thick and fast. Two of the three brother-lieutenants. Eight of the ten squad sergeants. They all had casualties. It looked like they'd lost three brother-marines. One of them was a brother-sergeant. The wounded were far more numerous. But they were space marines. If they weren't dead, they'd probably pull through.

"Disperse, and check on the ship's crew. Apothecaries, carry out the Emperor's will. And quickly, if you will. Our crew is not fit for duty, and without them we struggle to do as the Emperor requires. Tech-priests, see to the _Sword_, and let us do what we can to ensure we can defend ourselves. Now go about your duties".

Another chorus of acknowledgments, many of them in the Emperor's name, and Haruman allowed himself the luxury of pride. He swiftly repressed it. Pride, justified or not, was a sin that allowed the daemons of chaos a toehold in the fortress of one's mind.

His company was intact. There might not be a crew or ship to take them anywhere, but his company was intact. His primary responsibility was satisfied. That seen to, he moved to tend to the wounded. And the bridge was choked with wounded. Not one person, save the armour-clad brother-captain, had escaped injury. A quick check showed that most were in a serious condition. Lucretius was the worst, with half of his face burned to a medium-well slag. The shock from that alone could well kill him, and the infection that he was almost doubtlessly going to get wouldn't help his recovery, either. He'd need reconstructive surgery. Maybe bionic implants. Something like that anyway.

All of them needed urgent help. Urgent help that was unlikely to be forthcoming. Sick bay was not responding. Haruman guessed that whatever had battered the _Sword_ had hit the infirmary just as hard. The company's four apothecaries were going to be flat out for a while. But that's why they were space marines.

Moments later, the still functioning door to the bridge slid open, and then belched a fresh load of sparks and smoke, before the lights along its length died. Brother-Sergeant Shenyavin looked at the smoking door, shook his head, chuckled then walked onto the bridge. He reached out his hand, which Haruman shook, plasteel-gauntleted fists clanging slightly at the contact. Shenyavin's left hand came up and patted the brother-captain's right shoulder-plate. Few others would have dared the familiarity with a brother-captain. But Shenyavin and Haruman had been scouts in the same squad, three long centuries ago. There wasn't much one didn't share with a battle-brother of three hundred years. And no one was watching to see the protocol breach.

"How things going, sir?"

"Shit, Mike. Absolutely shit. Emperor's teeth, what the blazes happened to us?"

"Last thing I remember hearing was Ramsey ordering 'brace for impact'. I did… and woke up… 'bout ten minutes ago. You have any idea what got us? I'd thought we had that raider beat…" Shenyavin trailed off. There was a limit, after all…

"We did. It tried to ram us. Lucretius stopped them. But he ruptured their warp drives. Mike, we were caught in a warp core explosion."

The silence spoke volumes. Being dragged into the warp was regarded as similar to being pulled under by the suction generated by a sinking ship. It was considered fatal. But, here was the _Sword_, intact, relatively, and untainted by its unshielded trip through warp space. It was akin to the Bismark popping up in the Pacific with minor damage to the forward main gun. The ship had sunk.

So, to all conventional Imperial logic, had the _Sword of Lycurgas_. It had taken a pounding alright, and the ride through the warp had most certainly not left it unscathed. But it was intact.

Brother-Apothecary Dyalan jogged onto the bridge seconds later. One of the company's four dedicated medics, and they were all very good at their job. Hundred plus years of practice would do that. He paused at the door, took in the seen, and muttered under his breath, before pulling an auspex from his right hip holster, and scanning the crewman nearest the door. A hypospray to the neck followed the auspex scan, and the man moved on. Ramsey was next in line. The apothecary frowned, then leant in closer to the prostrate man. His breathing was raspy. Perhaps a collapsed lung. No matter. He had two. He would survive. The mess could be sorted out later. He turned a dial on the hypospray, and squirted it into Ramsey's neck. The pain-killer was potent, and would help combat the shock of the seriously broken upper arm. But that wouldn't kill him either, and as long as he was alive, everything else could be fixed. Save brain damage… but that wasn't likely in this case.

Dyalan looked up, and saw Brother-Captain Haruman and Brother-Sergeant Shenyavin watching his progress on Ramsey with concern. Dyalan smiled. Haruman was about as easy going a marine captain as he'd known, and was concerned for his men, despite his complete willingness to sacrifice them in the Emperor's name, and his men loved him for that compassion. The contrast was remarkable, but all the more remarkable for its relative commonality amongst space marines. The ranks, "brother-captain", "brother-sergeant", the "brother" prefixes weren't merely symbolic. A marine chapter was an incredibly tight-knit organisation. Barely a thousand men, a warrior elite on a world of millions. Or, given the Deathbringer chapter's control of the systems surrounding their home planet, more than that.

And, with lifespans many, many times greater than a normal human's, space marines forged very strong familial bonds with each other. But, even so, Edward Haruman already had a place in the 2nd Company's hearts.

Dyalan smiled, although he knew that neither of his two superiors could see it through his helmet, then answered their unspoken question.

"He's going to be fine, sir, brother-sergeant. He's hurting bad, and will need surgery, but he'll live."  
Haruman gave a curt nod that belied the relief that he felt, and that played about his eyes. Haruman had fought with Ramsey during the Beta Mithrax campaign, where Haruman had won the Crux de Humanitate. More than once Ramsey's timely usage of the _Leonidas_ for fire-support had saved the then-brother-lieutenant's platoon, and it was upon the recommendation of Brother-Captain Lysander, Haruman's mentor, that Bondsman-Captain Ramsey had been decorated. Ramsey and Haruman weren't friends, but they were more than just comrades.

Haruman was still in command though, and drew Dyalan's attention to the next casualty.

"Bondsman-Lieutenant Commander Lucretius is in a bad way. I suggest you get to him next."

Dyalan turned his gaze to follow Haruman's point, and saw the man he indicated slumped over his command console. Then the brother-apothecary drew in a sharp breath. Ouch. The figure had been hidden by the armoured bulk of the two marines. And looked to be in a sorry state. Preliminary checks via the auspex were not good – the man was well on his way into shock. Internal injuries. Horrific burns. He had to get to what was left of the sick bay. But the apothecary had to stabilise everyone else first.  
Auspex. Multi-spray. Osteo-stimulator. Cauterising torch. Three minutes. Then the marine casually threw the wounded Lucretius over his shoulder and took off at an effortless jog.

The two marines watched their brother leave the bridge. The silence was almost deafening. Without averting his gaze, Haruman spoke to Shenyavin.

"See to your men, brother, and have them see to their arms. We must not be taken unawares."

Shenyavin looked back at his old friend. The man was all business. And that was good. He had himself together. But they were space marines. They would endure. The brother-sergeant brought his right hand to his left breast, top of his fist clanging against his chestplate in salute.

"As you command, brother-captain. As you command, in the Emperor's name."

Haruman watched his old friend stride off the bridge, feet taking rapid paces that belied the hundred and forty kilos of plasteel, ceramite and adamantium armour the man was wearing.

The age-old quandary of commanders. Orders had gone out. Tasks had been delegated. The time when a commander would sit and second-guess himself, before contact had even eventuated. And yet a time when he had to, for the sake of the men's confidence in those self-same orders, appear the very image of confidence and assuredness. And faith, he mentally added. Faith in the Emperor, and in his wisdom, strength, divinity and benevolence. That faith was a critical part of a space marine's psychological make-up, spiritual armour, morale and determination. He had to show faith, to give his men fortitude by his own example. He depressed his comm-net switch.

"Senior brothers to my ready-room in one hour…"


	4. Courting the children of the wolf

To say that the senior staff of the _Intrepid_ were relieved when the _Enterprise_ materialised on long-range scanners would be a phenomenal understatement. The hideously outmatched ship had been eyeing the far larger vessel on the other side of the neutral zone with more than slight trepidation.

The _Enterprise_ did not. A Sovereign class vessel was more than a match for a D'Deridex. And Picard was a captain more than willing to use his vessel for intimidation if required. Or just to negotiate from a position of strength. Like he was planning on doing right now.

They were going to have a look whatever it was that popped out of space in the neutral zone. And they were going to go into the neutral zone to get that look. The Romulans could stomach it, or not, but anything that had created a surge of energy such as that reported four days ago had to be investigated. There was no two ways about it. At least, there were no two ways about the objective.

Secondary to that, however, were the political ramifications. Primary objective not withstanding, he didn't want to upset the newfound goodwill the Romulans had developed towards the Federation in the aftermath of the _Scimitar_ incident. A little tact could go a long way.

"Mr Brennaman, hail the Romulans."

"Aye, sir, on screen…"

The image of the starfield was replaced by the visage of the Romulan commander, slouched over and leaning to the right of his command chair. Uncharacteristically, the man didn't start the conversation with a threat or a taunt.

"The famous Captain Jean-Luc Picard. I'd ask what brings you to the edge of the neutral zone, but I think we both know the answer to that question. I am Commander Ryalak, of the _Minkash'maen_. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Picard was surprised. Romulans were renowned for their double-dealings, and for their far-reaching ambition. Either this one was an exception to the rule –unlikely, in Picard's experience-, better at hiding it than was the average –far more likely- and/or had been given orders to be courteous to the Federation where possible. The latter two were equally possible, and they were not mutually exclusive either. Nevertheless, diplomatic civilities… niceties was probably a bit strong… had to be maintained.

"And I you, Commander. I take it thus that we can dispense with the small talk and get to the crux of the matter at hand. That anomaly. We want to study. We were hoping that you wouldn't have any objection."

The Romulan's face broke into a grin. One that left Picard feeling more than a little uneasy.

"Of course not, Captain. As it happens, I was going to ask the captain of your other vessel if he wished to accompany us while we examined it."

Picard inwardly smirked to himself. Commander Ryalak had, advertently or otherwise, broadcast a great deal of his intentions with that last sentence. He had tipped the Romulan hand. They wanted a look at the anomaly. Not that that was at all unexpected. But it showed that they were willing to press on despite Federation protests. Which implied that they were very, very interested in what that anomaly was. Further, it showed that the warbird wasn't going to object to Federation examination of whatever it was.  
And importantly, politically, it implied that, by the Romulans being willing to let the Federation have a sniff, that it wasn't some new Romulan weapon.

"That is indeed fortuitous. All being well, we will rendezvous with you near the anomaly. If you need anything, you will let us know, I trust?"

"Of course, Captain. Thank you for being so uncharacteristically accomodating."

Picard smiled. He estimated that that was the closest thing that'd he'd likely encounter to a Romulan sarcastic quip.

" Thank you again, Commander Ryalak. Picard out."

Picard looked at his bridge crew. His first officer, Commander Yee, looked back at him with a quizzical expression. Picard looked right back, a humorous gleam in his eyes.

"Something wrong, number one?"

Commander Henry Yee was Picard's new XO. Smart, thorough, and by the book, if a fraction wet behind the ears. But he had an endearing innocence that the dark days of the Dominion War had not managed to completely erase. But now, now the man was looking plain confused.

"Nothing _wrong_, sir, but… that's what's wrong. They were being… perfectly reasonable…"

"Yes. They were. Let's not look a gift horse in the mouth".

He sat down and crossed his legs, before speaking again.

"Set a course for the anomaly. Warp six. Signal the _Intrepid_ to follow us in."

"Course laid in, sir."

"Engage".


	5. Circle of Elders

Brother-Sergeant Shenyavin was a little relieved to see that Haruman's ready room was intact. The number of times the senior brothers of the company had convened in this ready room, to be briefed on how they were to serve the Emperor.

The place had a surprising amount of sentimentality attached to it, considering how little sentimentality space marines usually had. There was also a certain mystique to the place. This room had held the soldiers of the God-Emperor for millenia. Countless generations of bondsmen had watched the elite of humankind collate thousands of years of combat skill and experience at a time. Millions had died from the dictates of those that ruled from this room.

But, more than that, it was the briefing room. Where, after a successful campaign, the senior brothers would come, sit down, and drink to the Emperor, and to fallen comrades. Where the seniors would relax, as much as marines did, it would be here, over a bloodwine, a drink the Deathbringers had partaken in for as long as they could remember.

It was such a part of the Brother-Sergeant's life that its continued existence suddenly made all the other problems appear manageable. The moment of familiarity, and the illusion of safety that came with it, seemed to relax everyone's nerves. Yes, the _Sword of Lycurgas_ was in bad shape. Yes, the crew had suffered noticeable casualties. But the ship was operational, and would be repaired. Then they could set about getting back to Lycurgas.

The senior brothers, with the exception of the four apothecaries, were now awaiting Brother-Captain Haruman. The conference table was rectangular, with semi-circular ends, and at the head was the vacant chair upon which Haruman would sit. To the chair's right sat the three brother-lieutenants, the company's only other marine officers. On the left sat the company's three techmarines, large number of bionic implants separating them from their brother marines. Brother-Librarian Bortalus, the company's attached psyker, sat adjacent to the techmarines, his blue power armour a stark contrast with the jet black, grey trimmed, armour of the other Deathbringers. Shenyavin, as the ship's senior NCO, sat opposite him. There were four empty chairs, two on each side, and then sat Chaplain Hensher, a grizzled old warrior who had been leading the company in battle hymns when Haruman and Shenyavin were still scouts. Reputedly the oldest marine in the chapter, no one actually knew how old he was. Although it had been calculated that he was somewhere over six hundred. Strong willed. Incorruptible. Dedicated to his marines and zealous for his God-Emperor. Hensher was the poster-boy for a space marine chaplain. Shenyavin was glad of his presence in a way that he would never admit, save perhaps to Bortalus, who could find out anyway. Hensher was the personification of the Imperial faith, and his implacability and stalwart refusal to give in to despair had held together many a marine unit in dire straits.

Shenyavin remembered when, early on in his time in the Emperor's service, he and his scout unit had located an ork encampment. They radioed it in, and were told to await he arrival of a tactical squad before pushing onwards. It arrived, accompanied by Chaplain Hensher. They attacked, the orks hurling themselves at the marines as soon as they showed themselves, to be cut down in droves. But, to the marine's horror, buildings that the scout squad had taken to be empty were revealed to be not only not empty, but being used as garages for a number of ork vehicles. They had roared out of the garage, red painted chassis warping as the over-powered, under-muffled ork engines pushed them at speeds far in excess of safe. And there were so many of them. The scouts were very, very nervous, as a veritable hail of primitive weaponry rattled over their heads. The marines too, were hesitating, although they continued ot fire back, controlled bursts of bolter-fire slamming into ork chests and blowing up, mass-reactive detonators making a mess of alien ribcages. Brothers Alford and Invictus, with the squad's two missile launchers, were desperately trying to keep the ork war-traks away. Their normally expert timing and anticipation thrown off by the fact that… well, the orks didn't know what they were going to do next, so there was no way that the marines could.

A war-trak got through, and its crude mortar landed in the middle of the marine squad. None were hurt, but the men were all thrown aside, crude explosive hurling them aside. And, all of a sudden, the orks were amongst them, and Shenyavin had his first taste of close combat. The foot long combat knife that had so impressed him at first had suddenly seemed somewhat pitiful in comparison to the enormous ork cleavers and machetes. He kept to his training, and his inclination, and didn't try to match the orks in strength. A huge beast of a thing swung an axe nearly as big as Shenyavin, over his head and down. The scout dodged to the left, and swung his right foot into the alien's stomach. It winced, but not enough, and Shenyavin ducked as another ork aimed a punch at his face. He turned back just in time to watch the first ork land a punch square on his chest.

With a whoosh, he had left the ground, flying backwards several metres, and then landed with a thump. His scout armour had taken the blow, but he was very dazed, and disorientated. The ork had followed up, running at him and lifting his axe, before the scout could get up.

Shenyavin watched, frozen in terror, as the giant blade started moving back down, everything seeming to run in slow motion. The sounds of the battle had faded out, and it was just the eight foot greenskin, its axe, and him. The axe came down, and Shenyavin seriously thought of the waste that he had been to the Emperor.

His self-effacing lament was cut short when Chaplain Hensher's crozius arcanum, held in the man's right hand, had intercepted the down swing of the weapon. A grunt, and a lunge, and the chaplain turned the weapon aside, stepped forward, and fired a shot into the face of the second ork with his plasma pistol. Before the first ork could follow up, Hensher punched him in the head, drove a power-armoured knee into his stomach, then, when the ork doubled over, slammed the aquilae-headed striking end of the crozius arcanum into the back of the ork's head. It came apart messily, green blood splattering over the chaplain's greaves.

Hensher, ignoring the battle raging around them, had turned to Shenyavin, still lying on his back, the skull-visaged chaplain battlemask hiding his expression. He leant forward, and spoke to the scout marine, somehow heard above the roar of the gunfire and the foul bellows of the orks.

"You purpose, scout marine is not to die for the Emperor. It's to make them –he said as he indicated the orks- die for him. Fight in His name. Try to avoid dying in it…"

They'd survived that day, as the chaplain had known they would. A platoon of marines, with armoured support, had arrived less than ten minutes later. Shenyavin had never forgotten that. Nor had he forgotten Hensher's saving his life, nor the words he had uttered. The man's faith in the Emperor was passed on to another that day, and it was something that Shenyavin held very, very close to his heart, and encouraged in his subordinates.

And the words that had been spoken to him, nearly three hundred years ago now, were the same words that he had uttered to his charges one more than one occasion.

Haruman came in as Shenyavin finished the thought. Good old Ed. Shenyavin was always glad to see him. But it still almost made him chuckle. Brother-Captain. Who'd have thought it. Then Haruman started speaking.

"Ok, all. Lets here it. What have we got?"

He addressed the question to the room at large. All the personnel here were veterans, and would be able to work out speaking order. Sure enough, Techmarine Atrimees was the first.

"The _Sword_ is in rotten shape, brothers. Leaving aside the fact that we are tremendously lucky to be alive." Atrimees made the sign of the great engine over his breast.

"The good news is, the reactor is functional, and completely intact. The bad news is, that's about the only thing that is. We should be thankful that the Emperor has seen fit to deliver us thus far, and not begrudge that which we lack-"

"Get on with it…" Hensher interrupted. The librarian smirked. Hensher could be impatient, and for all his faith in the Emperor, waxing rhapsodic about their gratitude to him wasn't going to help get the ship fixed.  
"Just about everything else is in a shambles. Weapon batteries are offline, void shields are offline, lances offline, external sensors patchy at best, warp drive offline, sub-light engines at 10, not that we can see where we're going anyway. Access to many areas of the ship is difficult. Internal communications are out. Short range external communication is running, but audio only. Tractor beam out. Can't get to the launch bays, so I don't know what they're like. Infirmary is crowded, and the equipment there isn't in a great shape either. Our vehicle cargo bays seem ok. Emperor's teeth, sir, we're lucky if the turbolifts run. Do you want me to keep going?"

Haruman held his head up, despite the litany of damage. They were still here, and not under attack, so that was a good thing.

"Is it going to get any worse, brother?"

"No, sir, it isn't. Hull integrity, despite everything, is near 100. Externally, at least. The armour held us together. We're not going to end up any worse off, at any rate."

"Brother-Librarian?"

"I can't explain it, Brother-Captain. I fear the voyage through the warp may have damaged my gifts. And not just mine, but those of all psykers aboard this vessel. Our astropaths have gone mad. They all survived, but have, to a man, gone mad. I cannot even reach them with my wind, though I can still sense the power of the warp. Brother-Captain, I cannot sense the astronomicon."

Once again, the silence became deafening. For nigh on twelve thousand years, the astronomicon had been the light in the warp by which Imperial vessels navigated. The beacon that marked Terra, birthplace of humanity, seat of Imperial power, and the greatest fortress in the galaxy. Means of navigation that did not include the astronomicon simply weren't discussed. They weren't even considered. The astronomicon was the most obvious embodiment of Imperial power. A choir of thousands of psykers, their psychic song guiding ships through the warp. Without warp travel, the Imperium could not exist. The astronomicon's absence, and the implication that that generated, was truly, awesomely frightening to the deeply pious space marines.

"You cannot sense it, or it isn't there?" Hensher asked the question, his slightly gruff voice once more serving to snap everyone out of sudden introspection.

"I cannot sense it, Chaplain. That does not mean that it is not there. However, I cannot sense it, but I do sense the winds of the warp, and I can see the imprints of the other psykers aboard this ship. I am still seeing with my mind-sight, brothers. But the astronomicon is not amongst that which I can see."

Shenyavin spoke next. "Why have the astropaths gone mad, brother-librarian? I take it that this is not an everyday occurrence…"

Shenyavin's sarcasm, inappropriate though it was, had managed to defuse the situation once more. At least it did… until Bortalus answered.

"Brother-Sergeant, they went mad as a consequence of the effects of the soul-binding ritual. This ritual binds their souls to the Emperor, allowing them to transmit messages through the warp, safe from taint or corruption. But, as He gives of his soul, to them, so do they give theirs."

He paused again. The pause was only for a fraction of a second, but it seemed to be far longer as the gathered marines hung on his every word.

"And so, in the absence of His presence in the warp around us, the astropaths have lost a part of their souls. And THAT has driven them mad."

If the absence of the astronomicon had hit the marines hard, then this piece of news was taken surprisingly well. The enormity of the statement simply rendered it invalid. It did not compute. It would be akin to informing the papacy that God had chosen not to exist, and that they could now all go home.  
"I'm not quite sure I heard you right, brother-librarian…" spoke Brother-Lieutenant Warren.  
Bortalus looked every bit of his three hundred and fifty eight years, at that moment. Librarians, more than all except perhaps the chaplains, had faith in the Emperor. Not simply because they believed, but because they knew. They could feel his presence in the warp. Their mind's eye could sense his awesome power, feel the ripples of his consciousness through the warp-winds. But Bortalus couldn't. His God-Emperor, as far as he could tell, didn't exist.

"What I am saying, brother-lieutenant, is that the astropath's have gone mad because the part of their souls that resides with the Emperor has been sundered from them. The Emperor's presence is absent from the warp. _That_ is why our astropaths have gone mad."

For a number of minutes, no one spoke. The implications of what the company's only battle-psyker had said were too enormous. The frame of thinking, the consciousness of every marine present had just taken a monumental shake. The God-Emperor was the centre of everything to a marine. Not the Imperium. Not humanity. Those two were fought for and defended, by their association with the Emperor, and by the lingering ties of understanding, compassion and shared origins that linked the barely human space marines with their unaugmented kin. To be told that the Emperor no longer existed was so inconceivable as to be in the realm of lunacy. Were it anyone other than the librarian, even the chaplain, they'd have been thrown out of the airlock for heresy, blasphemy, treachery, treason, subversion, mutiny, conspiracy or a combination of the above.

But it was the librarian, and the marines were at a loss. With the perhaps surprising exception of the chaplain. Hensher was the first to speak into the silence.

"Brother-Librarian, can you conceive of a reason for the combined absence of the Emperor's guiding spirit, and the astronomicon? My faith refuses to allow me to believe that he has simply vanished, and my reason tells me the same of the astronomicon."

Haruman leaned forward. This was a topic that he could discuss. His faith, like that of all marines, was ironclad, but it was not divorced from reason, nor could it be, if he were to effectively lead men in the field. Deathbringer doctrine, both religious and pragmatic, warned against presuming the Emperor's favour, and disregarding his gifts of wisdom and intellect. Many times had Hensher preached the merits of using the gifts the Emperor had granted, the gifts of sound mind with which to reason, as well as strong arm with which to smite His foes. And reason would be what determined this outcome. Bortalus spoke again.

"There are not many explanations that enter the realm of possibility. But I shall present them free from bias, and allow your minds to examine the likelihood of their occurrence."

He paused, deciding which to give first, while simultaneously considering others himself.

"Both the Emperor and the astronomicon are -were- located on Holy Terra. Were Terra to be destroyed, subverted, invaded or sabotaged, it is possible that the unthinkable may have occurred."

Haruman did not like that answer. It hit to many of his core values. However, he knew that Bortalus had more explanations, else he wouldn't have volunteered that apocalyptic vision first.

"A second explanation, and the third, but we'll focus on the second to begin with, is based upon the fact that we don't know for how long we were in the warp. We don't know where we are. We could be anywhere, literally. We have no guarantee we are even in the same galaxy as the Imperium."

He paused a couple of seconds, to let that sink in. The mens' mood seemed to visibly improve. The chance that their Emperor was not in fact blown to atoms was something that the marines were glad to hear.

"The third explanation is equally likely to the second. Again, it is based on the vagaries of the warp. In addition to not knowing _where_ we are… we also have no idea _when_ we are. We could quite conceivably have gone forwards, or backwards, in time. We don't know. Assuming spatial proximity to our own galaxy, then we could realistically have gone substantially either way, chronologically. Again, we don't know."

Haruman's head had begun to ache. Too many possibilities. Ramifications too far reaching. Courses of action as a response to each were too disparate. No way of determining which was correct.  
"So, to get this straight, brother-librarian, we don't know where we are, or when we are, and without knowing one, we cannot ascertain the other. And even if we DID, the _Sword_ is so beaten up as to be nigh on useless. We can't see, can't move, can't communicate, and can't defend ourselves. Have I, more or less, summarised our position?"

For what seemed like the umpteenth time in the past hour, the room fell silent. It was one of the techmarines that finally broke the almost pained silence.

"Yes, brother-captain. That summarises our position."

"So how can we fix it? Come on, brothers, lets hear it… lets have ideas. Don't tell me that you've all been sitting around feeling sorry for yourselves…"

Bortalus smirked and Shenyavin grinned. Haruman was trying to turn the sombre mood of the room around into productive determination. And it was working. The same techmarine answered again.  
"No, sir. Repairs are being carried out as we speak. Adept Jamieson expects internal communications to be back up within the hour. At least then we can receive and respond to damage reports and medical emergencies throughout the ships. The turbolifts are functioning, most of them anyway, so once the comms are back online, we'll be much better off."

As if on cue, the p.a. system in the ready room came on at that moment.

"Testing, testing, one, two, three. Blessed be the Emperor's name for he is our salvation. Blessed be His soldiers, who fight in His name. Blessed be humanity, deserving of his grace. Testing, testing, one, two, three."

Right after the test cycle, the techmarine's comm unit beeped.

"I take it that all has gone well, Adept?" the man asked.

"Yes, sir, the system is functioning. All stations report responding and standing by, a blessing from the Emperor himself. Unless you have further use for me, sir, I'll get on with the next task."

"No, carry on, Adept. Good work."

"Thank you, sir. Adept Jamieson, out."

The looks exchanged around the room were hopeful, for the first time that day.

"Brother-Sergeant, how are the brothers?"

Shenyavin, as the ship's senior non-commissioned officer, was responsible for liasing most closely with the men, in their lines. The chaplain would handle specific taskings, related to those having psychological problems, or serious morale collapse, but the NCOs were the first watch.

"Sir, for the most part, they're just doing their thing, such as it is. There has been, as of yet, no announcement to the crew about the gravity of our situation, so they're maintaining their training, and occasionally lifting things for the crew doing repair work. They're good, sir."

"And the crew?"

"Stressed, tired and overworked. They lost a sizeable portion of their number, and are suffering for it. Only one or two key staff, and they can be replaced from within the ranks, but the situation isn't good. Their morale is holding, and should continue to hold, as far as I can tell. Food is still getting through, and our supplies are still more than adequate for a long time to come. Nevertheless, some good news would do them wonders."

Haruman nodded soberly.

"When we complete our repairs, assemble the crew, and I will personally thank them for their efforts, then brief them on the situation. They deserve to know what's going on. While they do the repair work, I want you all to keep a very close watch on how they are holding up. Further, brother-librarian, I want you working with the techmarines to establish where and when we are, by any means necessary, and with all due haste. Then we can work out a feasible course of action. Any questions?"  
There were none.

"Good. Emperor be with you all. Dismissed."


	6. Hound of a future Ares

The two Federation ships dropped to impulse five hundred kilometres from the anomaly, and immediately initiated scans. Unsurprisingly, the first scan was visual. The bridge crew found themselves speechless. The anomaly had shape. And it had a shape that was recognisable.

Predictably, Picard was the first to recover, and his voice was steady as he spoke, belying little of the shock the image had created, or the confusion in its wake.

"Preliminary analysis, gentlemen?"

The normally upbeat and outspoken Lieutenant Brennaman let out a low whistle, but no other sound was made. About ten seconds had passed, before Commander Yee replied.

"It's human, sir."

The response on the _Intrepid_ was similar. Captain Keenan, a naval historian, took one look at the result of the anomalous subspace reaction, and reached the same conclusion. It looked like it had been in an extended fire-fight, at the very least. It was venting plasma from a number of points, and the hull was scorched and blackened in a number of places.

But it was definitely a starship. No doubt about it. And no doubt about its origins either. Pseudo-gothic architecture featured prominently, menacingly overshadowing gun-ports big enough to hold weapons with barrels the size of one of the _Enterprise_'s warp nacelles. Armoured sections on either side of the ship's aft-quarter dully reflected the light of distant stars.

Most tellingly of all, however, was the hugely distinctive lambda icon emblazoned on the armoured panels, scarred white lettering on the scored black of the metal. A tarnished gold double-headed aquilae was lay above the enormous armoured prow. In the distance, what was probably the ship's bridge stood sitting high above the block-like main body of the vessel.

And its lights were on. Beaten and smashed the ship might have been, but three things were very clear. It was still functioning, and presumably had crew still aboard. It was big. And it was human.  
Commander T'Marid was the first aboard the _Intrepid_ to speak into the silence as the bridge crew's minds processed the behemoth in front of them.

"Scan for life-signs. I'd bet my spots that there's crew still alive, and I'd bet my right leg that there'll be humans aboard. That ship has too many human traits to be anything but."

Ensign Hooper, the _Intrepid_'s ops officer, sent his fingers flying over the LCARS panel. No one saw his eyebrows rise as the number that came up on his screen.

"Sir, there are twelve thousand, four hundred and eighty-five life signs on board. All bar one hundred and twelve are human. The non-humans are classified as 'unknown', sir."

The captain put in.

"Shields or weapons?"

"None identified, sir. I can't tell if it's because it's unarmed, or if the weapons and shields are unpowered, or if they are damaged. The vessel… it's so far off established ship specifications that I have trouble guessing what it might be, or do."

"See what you can do. Although I'm guessing that those two protruding sections at the front of it are not to watch holovids. Now, we wait to see what Picard decides."

Picard's response to Commander Yee's statement was typically understated. He nodded his head.

"Yes, so it would appear, at any rate. Transfer all relevant data to my ready room. Senior officers, with me. Ensign Malley, you have the conn."

Picard left the bridge at a brisk walk, followed by Commander Yee. The discussion would be very specific

.  
"What do you make of it, number one?" Picard asked as they sat down.

Lieutenant Brennaman walked in as Yee sat down, the taller officer moving to sit next to him. Yee began.  
"Sir, it's human. That architecture, the colouration, the iconography, it's all historical human. But it's, quite obviously, no human-designed ship that I've ever seen. And there are a lot of crew. A lot. I hate to think of the casualties they'd have taken to get the pounding that they have."

Brennaman interjected.  
"Sir, our scans aren't telling us all that much. Whatever weapons fit it may have, it's nothing that the computer recognises. Same same for the shields. We don't know anything about them. Or even whether they exist or not. Given the estimated thickness of the hull, there may not be any. The size and presence of that much armour may in itself be indicative of a lack of shields. It could be a luxury liner, for all we know."

Geordi La Forge, the _Enterprise_'s chief engineer, walked into the ready room at that point, and heard Brennaman's last sentence.

"Captain, I ran some scans from engineering, and that thing is really old. Its hull is composed of very high-density metals, for the most part, including a plasticised pseudo-petroleum and iron-based compound, in addition to a high proportion of adamantium. And its total mass is likewise way out of the norm for human vessels. It is six times the length of a Borg cube, and about three and a half times as wide. Sir, its got as much weight to it as half of starfleet put together. As Lieutenant Brennaman said, we just don't know what it is, or does, or whether it's doing what it's supposed to."

The man paused, and looked out of the windows. The giant ship was visible out of the windows of the ready room. All eyes followed his gaze, settling on the damaged monstrosity.

Brennaman shrugged. "Luxury liner?"

Picard paused. And re-examined the ship. If that was a luxury liner, then he was a Klingon.

"That's no passenger ship, Mr Brennaman. The armour. The military iconography. And if those protruding sections on that thing's bow are not weapons of some sort, I would be immensely surprised."

He shifted his attention back to his senior officers, then carried on.

"No, gentlemen, that is a warship, and if my guess is right, we may find the greeting a little less than warm. I have no hard evidence upon which to base that conclusion, but, historically, that icon on the aft quarter outboard is the Greek letter 'lambda'. The emblem of the city-state of Sparta, which should be something you all know, at least in passing. Further, the double-headed eagle above the bow has been the standard of many a culture, none of which have been regarded as exceptionally pleasant by their contemporaries. Our next question becomes what are we going to do with it… or ask them to do with it, depending on their condition and inclination."

Commander Yee looked over at the unknown ship again. Christ if it wasn't a big one. The _Enterprise_ was 695.8m long. That thing was somewhere in excess of 18 kilometres.

"Let's hope they're feeling friendly, sir."

Picard allowed himself a small, amused snort. It would be a pleasant change, were that the case.  
"Signal the _Intrepid_. Pass on my regards to Captain Keenan, and have him take station to our aft starboard quarter. Once he's in position, hail the Romulans…"

A combination of interruption and gasps of surprise interrupted. He held up a hand to forestall the protests.

"If the unknown vessel turns out to be hostile, which it might well, then I would much rather have a D'Deridex class ship on our side than ambiguous."

Brennaman piped up in response.

"Sir, I think the chances of the Romulans standing and fighting if THAT turns hostile would be pretty small."

"Don't underestimate Romulan nerve, lieutenant. Commander Donatra of the _Valdore_ fought alongside me at Bassen Rift, and her doing so prevented the _Scimitar_ from reaching Earth. Of course, that doesn't mean they WILL stand, but another ship for them to fire at, that isn't firing at us, can only be an advantage."

"How confident are we that they will not fire at us, sir?"

"We are not at war with the Romulans, Mr Brennaman."

"We weren't at war with them under Praetor Shinzon, either, sir."

"Your point is made, lieutenant. I know that we should be very careful to trust the Romulans. But we know nothing about this new vessel. Nothing. Except its size. Maybe it's just me, but I prefer the devil we know. And, moreover, thus far Commander Ryalak has been nothing but courteous. It's only fair that we return the favour."

However hotheaded he might have occasionally been, Brennaman was a firm believer in fair play, and grudgingly conceded the point. Romulans didn't have a reputation as being the most trustworthy of species in the quadrant, but this one hadn't been anything but helpful and accommodating. Picard's thoughts strayed again to the _Scimitar _incident… Shinzon had likewise been accommodating.

Yee nodded. At least one of his senior officers had been convinced. La Forge appeared to acquiesce, but seemed far from happy. However, given the man's extensive negative experience with Romulans in general, it was more than understandable.

"If there are no further objections, then let us proceed. Return to your stations, and then we'll see what Commander Ryalak has to say."

His men got up and moved off, and once again he wished that his old crew were back. Will Riker's outspoken wit, and sharp mind. Worf's unrelenting, if sometimes brutal honesty. Data's brilliant innocence. Deanna Troi (Deanna Riker, he corrected himself) with her welcome insights in the most difficult of situations. The irrepressible Doctor Crusher. Wesley Crusher. Geordi, who was still here, to Picard's silent gratitude. The _Enterprise_ wasn't the same ship without them all. It had been a long time with them on board, although not, chronologically, as long as had been the twenty years he'd served aboard the _Stargazer_.

He walked to the replicator, and ordered his usual Earl Grey tea. His barked orders to the replicator were somewhat of a standing joke amongst the _Enterprise_'s crew.

Whatever this situation turned out to be, Picard thought, it would be interesting if nothing else…


	7. Awakening

Almost before his eyes, the _Sword of Lycurgas_ was coming back together. Crewmen briskly walked between stations, welders, auspexes and a hundred different instruments and tools grasped in their hands. From his seat on the bridge, Haruman watched the transformation. Consoles were repaired, dents were beaten out. Bloodstains wiped off. Bodies dragged away. His ship was healing itself. Wiping away the sores and injuries of Emperor-knows how long spent in the warp's tumultuous grip. Men couldn't be replaced so easily, but the ship had a very large redundancy in personnel, so that would not be a problem for some time to come. The loss itself was hard to bear, although bear it he would, as was His will.

It was commonly thought that marines had no conscience. Some might not. Some people are just built that way. But it was no more true of space marines than anyone else. They would do as the Emperor required. Didn't mean that it wouldn't be hard, or that there wouldn't be nightmares. But it was a space marine's lot in life. Loss was part of service, and it was better to die for the Emperor than live for yourself.

Things were better. They were going to be ok. They might be lost, and unable to navigate, with barely functioning engines even if they could. But they'd be ok. His charges were ok. The burden of responsibility could be a heavy one… and Haruman was still man enough to be glad when that burden was lessened with the knowledge that his efforts weren't in vain.

Mark Ramsey was awake. And Emperor it hurt. His arms, his legs, his chest, bloody hell, even breathing felt like his lungs were on fire. His anguished gasp echoed through the darkened room of… wherever he was… Apothecary Dyalan's face was quick to materialise above him, though, and the smile on his face would have been reassuring if Ramsey wasn't all but screaming in agony. He wasn't screaming because his lungs hurt too much.

Dyalan _was_ smiling. Smiling because Ramsey's return to consciousness assured the apothecary that the injuries he had sustained were not going to kill him. It may have cost him his left arm, and his left leg, and his left eye to boot. But they could all be replaced, so that wasn't a big deal. The big deal had been the lung damage, and the cracked skull, both of which had been repaired, mostly anyway. His lungs probably still hurt.

Looking at Ramsey's eyes, he could answer his question without taking any other readings. Dyalan winced to himself. The apothecary was used to treating space marines. Not humans. Same treatment… infinitely smaller margin for error on people. In this case, this patient needed a lot more painkillers. He reached over to adjust a dial. Morphine. 38,000 years of human development since its discovery and it was still the basis of pain relief throughout the galaxy. And a strange quirk of morphine was that patients in great pain could take doses of the drug that would kill a healthy person, and suffer no ill effects.  
A quirk that Dyalan was happy to use now. Comfortable, relaxed people healed much faster. Dyalan trebled the morphine dose. If Ramsey's heart stopped, they could always start it again…

His other important charge was the still-critical Bondsman-Lieutenant Commander Lucretius. To say he was in dire straits would have been putting it mildly. The man's face was barely recognisable. He would need major, major reconstructive surgery. And that was not something that a space marine apothecary had in his repertoire. More problematic was the serious muscular and skeletal damage that the intense heat had caused. And the nervous damage that the electrocution had left. And the tissue damage. And the very real possibility that Lucretius had literally cooked his brain inside his skull.

But at least the man wasn't dead, and wasn't visibly getting _worse._ And, for that reason, Dyalan had given thanks to the Emperor, and had personally, and privately, celebrated his own skills. Dyalan knew that pride was a sin. Knew it. Tried to avoid it. Failed.

But he also knew his own worth, and knew that the Emperor would forgive him for that slight transgression, as he leant down, and worked on peeling back another charcoal black part of what once was called Lucretius's face, humming to himself as he did so, absently pleased that he'd had the foresight to leave the man unconscious. Aside from the physical damage, there'd be little to no psychological torture for the hideous pain. Thank the Emperor for small mercies. The whole "missing most of his face" part could be fixed later. At least his mouth was still recognisable.

The injured marines had left the infirmary. Space Marines healed at astronomical rates. The worst injury had been one of the brother-lieutenants, who had been impaled on a 6 foot pole that had snapped out from a guard rail above the chapel-barracks. It had speared through his robes (he hadn't been on duty), pierced his reinforced, solid rib cage, driven through the left side of his chest, lungs and heart, back out the armoured ribcage, and then 4 feet beyond. When he'd come to, he'd spent 25 minutes working at the pole to get it loose from the floor, then walked to the infirmary, his body functioning on one lung, and one heart. And about two-thirds the default blood supply. But he'd been fine, once the infirmary was up and functioning again.

The crew were far and away the biggest concern, and there were hundreds still hanging on by willpower alone. Dyalan knew he'd lose some more. It was practically guaranteed. That didn't mean he had to like it. In fact, he didn't. It was an affront to his professionalism. But it was fact. He moved down to the next patient on his round, and moved his medi-gauntlet down to administer another dose of dicalcium-monosulfate solution to hyperstimulate bone regrowth, when his comm-net came to life.

"Haruman to Dyalan, status check. What have you got?"

Dyalan's response was crisp, cold and efficient. And hid nothing of the pain he felt from a man who had known him for two hundred years.

"Two hundred and fifty three. We discharged eight last night. Twenty eight are still critical, but all are stable, at least for the moment. I don't think they're all going to make it, brother-captain."  
Haruman's response was a little slow in coming, but clear.

"Thank you, brother-apothecary. The fallen will always be remembered, as the Emperor's finest."

Dyalan couldn't help bit feel very bitter. And a streak of unbecoming scepticism, and a sudden wave of disgust, rolled through him, despite the correct and formal nature of the phrase that Haruman used. Two hundred and fifty three patients. Men were going to die. And the Chapter would "remember them". Fat lot of good it was going to do the dying, wasn't it.

It wasn't the man's fault. Haruman would do anything in his power to help. But he couldn't. And, for the first time in two hundred plus years of service, the traditional marine salutation for the wounded and dying rang so hollow.

'_The fallen shouldn't have had to, in the first place'_.

Techmarine Varrel was hunched over a central control panel, torch-cutter in hand, eye-guards jammed over his face. Shenyavin watched him discretely knowing that the man was absorbed in his work, and not wanting to disturb him. Sparks flew again, and Varrel twitched. Shenyavin raised an eyebrow. The man was working with live circuitry. He shook his head…techmarines.

The techmarine twitched again, and Shenyavin shuddered slightly when he realised that each twitch was several thousand volts. He admired the man's nerve. Haruman had asked for a much speed in repair as could be mustered. Varrel was taking him seriously.

As the brother-sergeant continued to watch, one of the techmarine's servo arms reached out and picked up a tool from the pile two metres from where the man was working. It brought it over to the techmarine, who reached back and pulled it out of the clawed arm's grasp, and started using it on the panel ahead. Shenyavin was about to turn around, when Varrel finished whatever he was doing, and snapped the console cover shut, then stood up, and made the sign of the great engine, before pressing a prominent blue button on the grey panel.

Lights in the room flickered, flared, died, then caught and held, a steady, if slightly dim light providing real illumination in this area for the first time in days. Shenyavin chuckled to himself.  
"Care to join me while I inform the bridge that we have short range communications back up to specification, brother-sergeant?"

While slightly taken aback, Shenyavin was less so than might immediately have been thought.

Techmarines. Weird bunch.

4 hours later, another major system had been fully repaired.

"External sensors online, sir."

Haruman allowed himself a small smile. They could see.

"Good to hear. Run a sensor sweep. Lets have a look at what's going on around us."

A battlebarge's sensor suite was highly sensitive, in no small part due to necessity. Marines fought anywhere, even in space itself. Battlebarges took them there, and some of the places they went had very high levels of interference. By not being fast, a battlebarge had to see what was coming from a long way off.

This time though, it didn't need to.

"Sir, there are three vessels in our immediate surrounds. Their shields and weapons are both unpowered. Class and race are unknown."

Haruman's reply was immediate, and as per doctrine. He was no space combat expert, but he'd watched Ramsey enough to know the basics.

"Active scan. Full power."

The _Sword_'s ancient and battered sensor array focused its attentions on the three flies floating in visual range. At that range, the _Sword_ could detect single molecules, let alone whole ships.

"Report, bondsman-lieutenant…"

"The two smaller vessels are crew by a wide number of races, of which 28 percent are human. The larger of the three is entirely crewed by xenos of an unknown species. That unknown species shares 98 percent commonality with one of the races found on both smaller ships. The larger ship's design is markedly different. I think we are dealing with two separate factions, brother-captain."

Haruman's first response was one of disgust. Humans alongside alien filth. Tarnishing the divinity of humanity. Then he tempered his own response with reason. Deathbringer doctrine was more pragmatic than that of most marine chapters. Aliens were less than human. Humans were to rule the galaxy, in His name. But there was no reason why aliens could not serve under humanity's banner. It was perfectly understandable that humanity, here, wherever and whenever 'here' was, would think likewise, and use alien serfs to crew their vessels. Yes, he was sure that the Deathbringers could cope with that.

As for the alien vessel, well, that was another story. It was the biggest of the three, and was quite possibly intimidating the human vessels. The _Sword_ might not have been a piece of salvage, but, given the size difference, it was easy to see how these ships could think of the battlebarge in an equivalent fashion to the way in which the marines saw a hulk. Big, dangerous, but quite possibly very lucrative. And possibly carrying lost-tech from the Dark Age of Technology or Age of Strife.

Then he chuckled to himself. The three ships were tiny. And that sensor sweep would have scared the life out of them. The hulk was functional.

Haruman activated his power armour's integral commlink.

"How are the weapon repairs coming along, Techmarine Varrel?"

The pause was just long enough for Haruman to picture Varrel putting down whatever implement he was working on to better focus his attention on the conversation.

"Be a while yet, brother-captain. At least four hours, and that's only if the Emperor is willing to lend us a hand."

"And the void shields?"

"Uncertain. Wait out…"

Minutes passed. Haruman was unsure whether the man was checking a diagnostic, communicating with one of his fellows, prostrating himself before the divine machine spirit and asking for its guidance, or just taking a dramatic pause.

"Void shields should be online within a couple of minutes."

The brother-captain's right eyebrow went up. He'd thought that the shields were one of the most heavily damaged of the ship's subsystems.

"Praise be to the Emperor. Why the sudden change in schedule?"

"The circuitry was not fused all the way along, sir. Just in two widely separated sections, and that prevented the internal sensors from analysing the area properly. Instead of replacing 18 sections of wiring, we only needed to do two. So, yes, praise be to the Emperor."

Haruman nodded, although he knew the man couldn't hear him.

A voice pierced his reverie.

"Brother-Captain, we are being hailed."


	8. Voice of the future, now

The image of Commander Ryalak of the _Minnkash'Maen_ filled the viewscreen. The man looked aloof in that stereotypical Romulan fashion, but not hostile. If Picard wanted to be 100 percent honest with himself, the presence of the big D'Deridex actually reassured him somewhat. Not so much the Romulans IN it, but the _Minnkash'Maen_ itself was welcome.

"Commander Ryalak."

"Captain Picard. To what do I owe this… honour…"

Although Picard wasn't sure as to the sincerity of the last comment, he answered it diplomatically. As he was sure Commander Ryalak knew he would.

"I would like to hold conference between with yourself and Captain Keenan of the _Intrepid_ concerning the unknown vessel. If you are, of course, still willing to share our respective discoveries…"

The Romulan looked at Picard, and the two ship captains knew exactly what the other was thinking… overtones of 'yeah, right' were hard to ignore when they were so obvious.

"Of course not, Captain. When would be convenient?"

"We are standing, Commander Ryalak. Signal us whenever you are ready."

"It shall be as you say. I would like to bring my science officer, Centurion Ree, unless that is objectionable…"

Picard laughed inwardly. The veneer of civility was all the more amusing for the almost satirical commonality that it shared with the thinly veiled hostility of not so long ago. This time, Picard allowed himself a small smile, knowing that Commander Ryalak would probably interpret it correctly.

"Not at all, Commander. Whenever you're ready. Picard out."

As the feed was cut, Picard turned towards his ready room.

"Signal the _Intrepid._ Send Captain Keenan my compliments, and ask him to join me in my ready room at his earliest convenience."

An affirmation trailed Picard as he left the bridge, fully intending to review what notes he had prior to the arrival of Captain Keenan and Commander Ryalak.

He sat at his chair, and picked up a PADD. Volumes of information on that vessel. Sensor readings so intrusive that any known ship would have opened fire on them. He could read the information in front of him for days. But it still told him nothing.

Except that whatever they were dealing with was big, armoured, armed and shielded, had a very large crew, and was more several thousand years old. The age had struck Picard harder than it perhaps should have. He took a genuine interest in history, particularly military history, and naval and spacefaring history. This ship, the leviathan floating in front of him, was a space-going antique. It wasn't unlike a trireme would be to the crew of the HMS Dreadnought, circa 1905. But, despite its age, it was no doubt a warship. And carried twelve thousand odd crew.

Without warning, the ship vibrated. Picard looked around himself quickly, before slapping his commbadge.

"Picard to bridge, report"

Commander Yee responded.

"Captain, we have been scanned."

"Scanned, number one?" Picard asked, surprised. "What was the… on my way." Commander Yee vacated his seat as the captain walked onto the bridge.

"Scanned, were we? Why did the ship vibrate?"

Again, it was Commander Yee that answered.

"Sir, the scan came from the unidentified vessel. However, it was on a much lower frequency to conventional scans."

Picard raised an eyebrow as he sat down on the command chair.

"That's not all, I take it, Commander?"

"No sir." Brennaman interjected. "But that thing just put more power into its scan than we can put into our phasers."

Picard paused again. Seconds passed.

The stakes were suddenly a great deal higher. If the unknown warship's scans could make the ship vibrate, then he shuddered to think what the output of its weapons would be. And with a vessel that size, the power output would be immense. If the weapon throughput was proportional, there wouldn't be a shielding system in the quadrant that could hold up to more than two or three blasts. One thing had suddenly become very, very clear. The two Federation ships, even if the _Minnkash'Maen _assisted them, would be outmatched.

"Open a hailing frequency to the Romulans."

"Aye, sir."

The Romulan Commander was the first to speak, and did so as soon as the link was established.

"Captain Picard, I assume you have been scanned in the same way that we have just been?"

"We have, Commander, and have called to determine whether you've reached the same conclusion I have."

The Romulan looked back at the human, and both saw understanding reflected. Picard was unsure, but he consciously knew that Romulans lived considerably longer than humans, as a rule of thumb, and were usually considerably stronger, physically. Commander Ryalak's only sign of age was his eyes, and only some of the time. But, just then, Commander Ryalak looked every bit his 130 years. His response was one of the most straight forward that Picard had ever received from a Romulan.

"Yes, yes we have. That ship could quite comfortably engage all three of our ships. Would I be correct in assuming that you have been granted authority to speak on behalf of Starfleet?"

That was Picard's signal that the negotiations had suddenly become serious.

"I do have that authority, yes."

"I do not have authority to speak for our fleet. But, as you have the firepower advantage here, I will place my ship under your command, if I have assurance that Starfleet will share any information it receives concerning this vessel, with us."

Picard hadn't been bold enough to hope for that request, but he was delighted to hear it, nonetheless. Starfleet would gain much favour with the Romulan Senate were they to share their research, and the control of a D'Deridex class vessel would add about another 40 to the firepower of the fleet. And given the numbers involved, they needed every ounce of firepower they could get.

"Commander Ryalak, you have Starfleet's assurance that any and all information we obtain on this vessel will be forwarded to Romulus. It IS sitting in the middle of the neutral zone, after all."

"Glad to hear your acceptance, Picard. Ryalak, out."

As the viewscreen blanked out, Picard smiled, and a couple of the bridge crew applauded. Even after the Dominion War, where the Romulans and Klingons had fought alongside the Federation, the Romulans had remained somewhat aloof. Allies they had been, but by common enemy, not common cause. Romulan ships operating under Federation command were few and far between. And now, here was a rendezvous with a Romulan ship that could set the standard for Romulo-Federation relations for years.

Of course, the enormous unknown human warship was still there. But that was something that couldn't be rectified at that time.

At least they could try talking to them, now…

"Hail them."

There was another pause, before ops spoke.

"Hail who, sir?"

Picard jammed his index finger towards the enormous ship that dominated a goodly arc of the viewscreen.

"Hail THAT, and make sure that the feed goes out to the _Intrepid_ and the Romulans."

All eyes moved again from the Captain to the screen, where the huge ship sat menacingly.

"Aye sir."

The chime of the hail changed as it initiated.

"Hailing frequency open, sir."

"This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the starship, _Enterprise_. Identify yourselves."

Again, there was a pause while the differing technologies attempted to establish stable connections. Then the bridge of the unknown ship filled the viewscreen, and they got their first look at the crew.

"This is Brother-Captain Haruman, of the, _Sword of Lycurgas_. Greetings in the name of the Emperor. I admit to being pleased to see a human in command of your ship."

Picard looked at the man in front of him. He was big, but how big was difficult to ascertain over the viewscreen, and he was wearing black armour, trimmed in silver-grey with a winged skull on the chest plate. His face was square-chinned, and sported a number of scars, and was topped by a closely cropped lock of dark brown hair. A pair of piercing blue eyes held his gaze with an intensity which would have frightened lesser men. Although he gave no sign, he could almost hear the Romulans sputtering at the man's pro-human stance. His own bridge crew kept quiet, but he knew them well enough to know that this Brother-Captain Harumn had not made a good first impression.

"Your pleasure is noted, Brother-Captain. Your somewhat dramatic arrival has caught our attention. I do not mean to sound confronting, but you have appeared in a restricted area of space. From where do you hail, and what brings you here?"  
The big man shifted slightly in his seat, before answering Picard.

"We have had a navigational error, to be frank. We were caught in the blast of a warp core overload, after engaging raiders while transiting to the Maelstrom from the Cadian Gate. We have taken a number of casualties, and severe damage, but we are bringing the damage under control. Our prime source of difficulty remains navigational. But bluntly, Captain… we don't know where we are."

Picard smiled, and relaxed slightly. For all the questions that their arrival raised, and there were certainly a great many of them, the apparently innocent nature of their arrival allayed his fears of imminent invasion.

"I see. Well, we can provide you with current coordinates without any problem. Stand by."

He turned to Brennaman.

"If you will, Mr Brennaman."

"Aye, sir, information away."

The figure of Brother-Captain Haruman smiled slightly, then inclined his head fractionally towards Picard.  
"Thank you, Captain Picard, crew of the _Enterprise_. In the Emperor's name, we thank you. If you'll give us a couple of minutes, we will get back to you."

Then, with a closing smile, the channel closed. Picard waited a few seconds, allowing all of the implications of the conversation that had just taken place to run through his head. It was too much information to process quickly. Too many possible interpretations and courses of action.

"Mr Brennaman, signal the _Intrepid_ and the Romulans. Tell Captain Keenan to beam over here with his first officer, and anyone else he chooses, for a conference. Ask that Commander Ryalak does the same. We all need to put our heads together, and quickly. Preferably before this "brother-captain" gets back to us. I don't like how that last conversation went, and I suspect that we wont like how the next one goes, either."

Brennaman's hands darted is LCARS panel, sending out the signals across the void to relay their precious cargoes of information to the other ships. Dual chimes informed the officer of his success.

"Received sir."

Gently bleeping alarms sounded across the bridge.

"Sir, we are detecting a power surge from the _Sword of Lycurgas_. It is rising exponentially."

Picard's head swivelled back to the viewscreen, once more showing the recently identified ship, with space appearing to shimmer around it, elliptic orange yellow shroud glowing around it, before fading from sight.

"Captain, the ship has raised shields. Its power levels are once again steady".

"Run a shield comparison, Lieutenant Radak. How do they compare to ours?"

Several seconds later the response from the Bajoran officer was heard.

"We don't have one, sir. The shields appear to operate along an entirely different set of principles. But, they're big, sir. The energy that they just put out was considerable."

"Explain".

There was another pregnant pause.

"Sir, based on raw energy, we could throw every bit of power we put into our phasers, and every photon, quantum and transphasic torpedo we are carrying, into those shields, and we'd be lucky to take them down to 95 percent."

"Acknowledged, Mr Radak".

Picard's voice was grim and tight. But the conference would turn up some thoughts, if nothing else. Romulans were always a clever lot, if nothing else. He was sure that between the officers in question, they'd come up with something…


	9. Seeking Sparta's sons

Brother-Captain Lysander read the latest report, twelve pages of documentation saying that, in essence, they knew nothing of the whereabouts of the _Sword of Lycurgas_. He put down the report, and took a sip of the cup of warm bloodwine that had been sitting on his huge earth-oak desk. The desk was a relic, and was astronomically expensive. To the right person, it could have bought a city, harkening back as it did to a time when trees still grew wild on Holy Earth. It was a heavy thing, many millenia old, and just as sturdy as the day it was made.

He hung his head slightly, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with the fingers of his left hand. His head was pounding, as it always did when he ignored the requirements to sleep. For a week and a half, in this case. Being a marine had its perks. But then, one was still human. Sort of. And the night was pressing down on him, at that moment.

He sighed loudly. His mind was wandering, again. And when it did, it always came back to the same point. Ed Haruman was missing. Perhaps the most promising up and coming Deathbringer officer since… well, himself, if Lysander shunned false modesty.

He'd done well through a whole string of engagements, but come to Lysander's attention during the opening engagements against orks during the Third Armageddon War. Haruman had taken command of his squad when the foot of a squiggoth had flattened his sergeant. That squad had held the northern approaches to the phoenix bridge until two regiments of Imperial Guard arrived to push northwards towards several 'rok' landing-sites. Haruman's squad had taken six casualties, two of which were dead, including the sergeant. The heavy bolter barrels had fired almost constantly for days, and the weapons had fused to the armoured hands of their bearers through overheating. But they had held the bridge open, Brother Haruman coordinating the orbital bombardment by Imperial warships in low orbit.

And the Imperial Guard had been forced to use their tanks to clear away the mounds of ork corpses, piled eight deep in sections. The orks never again came that close to taking the bridge. Brother Haruman became Brother-Sergeant Haruman. And he just got better from there.

Beta-Mithrax VI made him, however. Lysander watched Haruman, by then a brother-lieutenant, lead his platoon with stunning success, taking minimal casualties throughout the gruelling six months of combat with orks, heretics of the Alpha Legion, and marines of the White Hellions chapter, who had turned their back on the Imperium. Six Deathbringers had died under Haruman, of the thirty that had fought under him. By the end of that campaign, Lysander had recommended Haruman for the Crux de Humanitate, and a promotion to brother-captain.

But now, he was lost to the warp, as far as Lysander was able to tell. And, more importantly, along with over a hundred space marines, more than twelve thousand bondsman, and one of the Chapter's three battlebarges.

Mindful of Lysander's concern for his protégé, Master Ragarik had tasked Lysander and his 2nd Company to investigate the missing company, and, if possible, take any action required to resolve the matter, at Lysander's discretion.

But the problem was that they couldn't find a problem. The _Sword of Lycurgas_ and its crew compliment had just vanished. The Imperial Navy had reported a complete halting to any and all raiding activity by the _Free Enterprise_, so the generally held consensus was that the _Sword_ had managed to destroy it. But it had not confirmed its operation, nor asked for retasking, nor made any communication at all, in fact.

The trail was easy to follow, to a point. Cadia, where it took on supplies after the campaigns there. South to the fleet yards at Cypra Mundi, for repair and refit. Gathalamor. Picked up in warp-transit by defence arrays around Ophelia IV, still heading towards the galactic south, and the Maelstrom patrol routes. Contacted shortly thereafter by Imperial Navy astro-telepathic broadcast from Macharia. Responded. Then went on a merry jaunt throughout that whole area of the Imperium, rendezvousing briefly with a Dark Templar strike cruiser, shortly before transmitting a final communication to Lycurgas, time stamped 4189906M41. High command had waited nearly three months before becoming concerned. Now, it was 2270906M41. And the Deathbringers chapter, as a whole, was exceptionally concerned.

Lysander muttered to himself. A battlebarge didn't simply disappear. The last message, perhaps, was their best clue. 33 days ago, give or take. Their location was given, as was their intended course of action, the name of the sender, in this case Adept Van Prof…

And all of sudden a course of action came to him. Sudden insight, like a bolt from the Emperor, shone bright in his mind.

Adept Van Prof was an astropath, broadcasting a message to a facility, rather than a specific individual. Therefore, other Imperial ships would have picked up the message, even though they'd have been unable to decode it. If they were following standard Imperial procedure, they'd have recorded the time, and point of origin…

Other Imperial ships, such as a Dark Templar strike cruiser, for example.

Lysander depressed the comm-stud on his desk, then spoke into the receiver.

"Have High-Adept Vikrano meet me at the Reliquary."

There was a brief pause before a response came back over the intercom.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but the High-Adept is asleep and…"

"Then wake him. Have him send a message to Nadgazad. Tell the Dark Templars that we are coming."

Lysander closed the channel, then walked to his wardrobe, and donned the flowing black-on-gray robes of a Deathbringer brother-captain. Then, fabric flowing behind him, he made for the entrance to his quarters, pausing briefly at the intercom-point. Once more, he depressed the comm-stud, and spoke into the grille.

"Muster the 2nd Company, and ready the _Leonidas_. We move at dawn."


	10. To judge the gamble with Chronos

Thank you all for your respective reviews. They are greatly appreciated, and definitely provide more incentive to write. Writing's always are greater pleasure when there are people to read your work.

Smithklein: Very comprehensive review, thank you for your insights. In response to the questions posed, chronoton particles appear whenever a ship or object is displaced from its time. It happens quite regularly, according to trek canon. In this instance, by virtue of the nature of warp (WH40K warp) travel, a ship doesn't travel in time so much as cease to have a time of its own. The warp, as a realm of nothing but energy, is not subject to the same laws of physics that we expect on the material plane. Evidenced by the continued life and existence of the very same chaos marines that fought at the Ultimate Gate, during the Heresy.  
Secondly, the chaos powers are not themselves visible to all psykers. This is apparent by the fact that astropaths don't run around screaming "chaos is coming, chaos is coming". The Imperium controls its psykers as best it can, but it is not foolproof by any stretch. And, by extension, the Emperor is taking pains to conceal his presence, wary as he was during the birth of the chaos powers. Millenia of human development occurred without anyone being aware of his presence. Applying the concept to the ST/WH40K cross that this is, not one of the many telepathic races encountered have noticed the presence of the Emperor. And, given the appallingly woeful nature of Imperial records prior to the Heresy, and the closely held information that exists during and immediately before that, AND the culture of information secrecy that pervades the Imperium, _AND_ the penalties imposed by the Inquisition for even suspicion of a breach… We really have a free hand to talk about pre Dark Age of Technology galactic history.  
Reference the Eldar… I'm not sure… there IS a bit of a clash here, that I am unsure how to explain. The Eldar were most certainly present during the ST time frame, and had a truly glorious civilisation. My first thought was to consider them and off-shoot of the Romulo-Vulcan gene-stock… but then the dates don't work. I think perhaps the "we haven't found them yet" idea might work best, to be honest.  
Marines are soldiers. Soldiers of the Emperor, perhaps, but soldiers nonetheless. As an army officer, myself, I know that anyone that stands up in plain sight, brightly coloured and not moving is going to get whacked, armour or no. A contemporary assault rifle is comparable to an autogun, and we all know that it doesn't take all that many autoguns to bring down a marine. And these marines are supposed to live for hundreds of years. They don't get that old by being stupid fanatics. Stupid soldiers… dead soldiers. And given the long history of many chapters, I sincerely doubt they're stupid. Well picked up, though.

Grayangle: Thank you for your regular reviews as well. It is always nice to have a fan, and its you all that keep the writing flowing, and the bloodthirsty muses satiated.

Entilza: Tell you what, I'll make you a deal… If I keep writing, YOU keep writing… Your interaction between the Federation and Imperium is interesting, to say the least.

Posthumous: Marines, as I explained above, should always choose prudence… but a Battlebarge is a big mutha of a ship, and a company of marines is nothing to be scoffed at. Contrary to how they're usually used in the table top game, space marines are supposed to operate as special forces, not as line combatants. That's the guard's job. I try to write from that angle…. But don't always quite get it right… Cheers anyway :)

Liljimmyurine: Thank you. I intend to…

Now, without further ado…

"This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the starship, _Enterprise_. Identify yourselves."  
The voice was surprisingly strong and confident for a man of such small stature, was Haruman's first thought. Bald, indeterminate middle age, apparently decent physical condition. Black uniform, trimmed in grey with a red collar, bearing four silver pips. Similar rank display to that of the Imperial Navy… high rank for a corvette commander. Maybe the navy was stretched even thinner in this sector. And it looked like they hadn't seen a battlebarge before…

"This is Brother-Captain Haruman, of the, _Sword of Lycurgas_. Greetings in the name of the Emperor. I admit to being pleased to see a human in command of your ship."

Haruman had no idea that his joke would fall quite so flat. Of course the human was in command of the ship. He was human. That was enough in itself. It was highly irregular that there even WERE xenos on board the ship, let alone manning stations and crewing it. But, he assumed that this corner of the Imperium was a little more relaxed than most. He wasn't a Dark Angel. He could live with that.

"Your pleasure is noted, Brother-Captain. Your somewhat dramatic arrival has caught our attention. I do not mean to sound confronting, but you have appeared in a restricted area of space. From where do you hail, and what brings you here?"

Picard's response was a measured, cautious one. Entirely understandable, although he appeared a fraction less tense. It wasn't obvious, but Haruman had been around a fair while. Still, the answer Haruman would have to give was an embarrassing one.

"We have had a navigational error, to be frank. We were caught in the blast of a warp core overload, after engaging raiders while transiting to the Maelstrom from the Cadian Gate. We have taken a number of casualties, and severe damage, but we are bringing the damage under control. Our prime source of difficulty remains navigational. But bluntly, Captain… we don't know where we are."

The balding captain's smile was actually expected. It wasn't every day that a space marine ship misplaced itself, and less often that they then admitted it to the Imperial Navy.

And of course, there was a more sinister undertone. Space Marines were independent armies in the truest sense of the word. Their attachment to the Imperium was more by circumstance than choice. They had completely free reign over their own actions, responding to Imperial wishes as and when they chose. Most Chapters were quite honourable in their conduct, regularly being the first response to any number of threats, and for that reason the population of many planets thought of space marines as superheroes.  
But the temptation for destruction by a wayward marine chapter was immense, and a number of chapters had reputations for being disdainful of the Imperium's citizenry, some even going so far as raiding planets in their theatres for resources. The temptation to look down on non-enhanced humans was great, and could have horrific connotations. The aptly named Marines Malevolent were a prime example. Effective marines, pragmatic combat doctrine. Honoured the Emperor. But had no regard whatsoever for the Imperial citizenry. They had been censored by the Adeptus Administratum for interfering with the passage of tithes, but had told the Administratum to pay attention to its own affairs, and not to interfere with Astartes business.

Haruman had just, indirectly, assured the man that they had no immediately hostile intentions. For that, Haruman guessed, he was grateful, and appeared to warm up immediately.

"I see. Well, we can provide you with current coordinates without any problem. Stand by."

That was easy, Haruman thought. Don't know where we are, so just ask the first ship that comes along, and that's it. Then he frowned briefly. It was too easy. There had to be a catch. There was always a catch.

Bondsman-Lieutenant Wallman nodded to him. They'd received the co-ordinates. And there it was. Wallman frowned as well. Something wasn't quite right.

"Thank you, Captain Picard, crew of the _Enterprise_. In the Emperor's name, we thank you. If you'll give us a couple of minutes, we will get back to you."

Wallman, the smart man that he was, took that as his cue to cut the feed. Haruman wasn't Ramsey. Ramsey wouldn't be back in ship-command for a week or so, at least. But Haruman was at least fairly easy to work with. Knew what he didn't know. And let the officers of the _Sword_ do their jobs. Like he did then.

The coordinates that they had received from the _Enterprise_ were in a very archaic format, even by Imperial standards. Still readable, but archaic.

That wasn't the primary concern, however. The primary concern was that the readings of the co-ordinates indicated that they were exactly where they had been when they destroyed the pirate vessel.

"Brother-Captain, these co-ordinates indicate that we are exactly where we were when we caught that raider, and just before its warp core went up. But our astro-navigation doesn't concur with that. It's sending the chronograph crazy."

Haruman began to turn towards Wallman. A dark hand was settling across the brother-captain's soul as a possibility began to crystallise in his mind.

"Bondsman-Lieutenant Wallman, assume that the coordinates are correct. Run the chronograph from our astronavigation systems. What is the new setting on our chronograph?"

Wallman was slow in his response. His fingers kept hitting the dials in front of him, and Haruman was certain that the man was muttering something. Entreaties to the Emperor or the Machine God, he hoped, but somehow he doubted it.

"Forgive my tardiness, Brother-Captain, but the readings aren't registering within parameters. I am running systems diagnostics now."

Haruman let him, but feared that his conclusion was correct. The pieces all fit. And his gut was telling him that he was right. He trusted that gut of his. It'd been through a lot with him…

Seconds became minutes as the panel reset itself. It bleeped its readiness, then the tapping of Wallman's fingers across the keys.

He frowned again.

"Sir, the chronograph puts us at 9435379M3."

Haruman slowly nodded his head. He hadn't known the details. But it was as he suspected. No astronomicon. Human vessels tiny in stature, and bereft of Imperial iconography. Emperor's majesty not evident. Astropaths going mad. Navigational-chronological systems going haywire. And of course… the warp. Nothing was impossible when one threw the warp into the equation.

"M3, Mr Wallman?"

"Aye, sir, that's what the data says…" He trailed off. It seemed somewhat surreal. To him, it just didn't feel right. They couldn't just get dumped 38,000 years in the past. It just… didn't happen. He'd jumped into the warp hundreds of times, and nothing like that had ever happened.

He tried to ignore the small voice in his head that insisted that the other times, the ship had had its warp engines powered, and its real-space bubble intact.

Haruman's mind was a blur. Every action by the crew of the battlebarge, every movement, even their very presence, was altering the timeline.

A timeline that was full of near misses, close shaves, lucky shots and knife edge victories.

A timeline that lead to the formation of the Imperium, and general ascendancy of humanity.

And that event was one that Haruman had every desire to preserve. He was a Deathbringer, and it was his appointed task to lead his brethren as the heralds of death for the enemies of humanity.

Normally, it wasn't that hard. They received a distress signal while on patrol, responded to it, killed whatever it was that needed killing, then returned to Lycurgas if necessary. Or, they'd get a direct request from some Imperial branch or other, and attend to that. Or be attacked while on patrol. Easy. Kill it, go home.

Here, though, everything was different. Everything. Even talking to Picard had changed the timeline. The immense comparative strength of the _Sword_ to the three other ships guaranteed that their arrival would be noticed, documented and reported. More ships would be sent, and the timeline would alter further.

Action, reaction, cause, effect.

Crap.

They had to attempt to return to the 41st millennium. If they were destroyed, even sifting through the wreckage of the battlebarge would give a tremendous technological advantage to whoever held the debris field.

They could not, under any circumstances, allow the _Sword_ to fall into non-Imperial hands, regardless of their race. The future of the Imperium rested on it. They had to do their utmost to return to their time. For all mankind.

"Conference. Senior brothers. Ready room. Now."


	11. Conclave of Minds

Nearly 45 minutes had passed, and there was no word from the _Sword of Lycurgas. _The mammoth vessel just hung in space, like a wounded lion. But, this lion was healing before their eyes, and was, in all likelihood going to show itself to be the single most powerful starship in the quadrant, and possibly beyond that. Friendly enough, at first communication. 

But they had said they'd get back to the _Enterprise _ shortly, and deviation from the protocol was very undiplomatic. But then, the communication hadn't gone like a first contact exchange at all. The Brother-Captain had spoken courteously, but had expressed no curiosity. Indeed, hadn't really commented on the contact at all, save to say hello, and inquire as to the location. 

Picard pondered the rank. Brother-Captain. Captain could mean a number of different ranks, even within human military structures. A captain would be a relatively low rank in the army, but a relatively senior one in the navy. The presence of the "brother" prefix implied some sort of monastic or religious leanings. 

"Sir, Commander Ryalak is ready to beam aboard." 

Picard looked over at Captain Keenan, on his left. The man shrugged. Picard's call. He pushed a button on the arm of his command chair. 

"Acknowledged. Have security escort him to my ready room. Respectfully. He is an ally, at the moment, and we will treat him as such." 

"Aye, sir." 

Picard looked back at Keenan. 

"Shall we prepare to meet him, then?" 

"Yes, Jean-Luc, I think we should." 

"Commander Yee, Commander T'Marid, if you'll join us in the ready room." 

Commander Ryalak and Centurion Ree arrived a couple of minutes later. Picard stood and offered his hand to the Romulan commander. He looked at it for a couple of seconds, then looked Picard in the eye as he took it. Picard spoke as they did so. 

"Commander Ryalak. Again, I wish we could have met under less pressing circumstances." 

"Yes, Picard. You are a near legend, on Romulus. Either famous, or infamous, it's sometimes hard to tell which. But a legend, for all that. This is my science officer, Centurion Ree." 

The Romulan indicated gave a curt nod to the four federation officers. The atmosphere was somewhat surreal. Romulan and Federation officers didn't just cordially beam over and start talking about how to resolve a problem. It was, in fact, almost unheard of. But it was happening. 

Although, admittedly the circumstances under which it WAS happening were a little unusual. Ships didn't pop into existence on a regular basis. And ships like the _Sword_ were one of a kind, also. 

"If you'll join us at the table, Commander Ryalak, we can begin. There's a great deal to cover." 

The six men sat down, and five of them turned their gazes to Picard. Not that that was unexpected, but he could not help the feelings that the burden of responsibility brought. And few of them were pleasant. 

"First things first, lets collate what is known about this ship and its crew. Specifically, and perhaps most interestingly, the ship is human in design." 

Centurion Ree was quick to respond. 

"So what sort of Federation plot is this then, Picard?" 

"Centurion. Remember yourself" Ryalak interjected. 

The Romulan's subordinate clamped his mouth shut, but his glare remained in place. His voice was stilled, but his question stood. It would have to be addressed. Keenan began. 

"Now wait just one damn minute, here. There is no way you can even think that…" 

"Captain, please. The Centurion's question needs to be answered." 

The senior captain turned to address the whole room. The emotions on each face were markedly different. Centurion Ree, hostile and distrustful. Commander T'Marid, cautiously optimistic. Keenan, impatient, but curious. Yee, patient and calm. Ryalak… something else. 

"Centurion Ree, while your concern is entirely understandable, it is misplaced. Note that I said human, not Federation." 

The two Romulan officers glanced at each other with identical raised-eyebrow-bearing expressions. Picard would have smirked if the situation hadn't been tense. 

"The crew of that ship is 99 per cent human. With approximately one hundred non-human life-signs. The non-human lifesigns are of an unknown species. Their lifesigns read similarly to Klingon ones." 

Keenan and T'Marid looked thoughtful. They hadn't yet been briefed on this. 

"Further, I think we're all in agreement that that vessel is a combatant. As I have discussed with my crew, there are too many obviously militant features for it to be anything but." 

Commander Ryalak once again spoke up. 

"Captain, what is there to assume that a militant group has not captured another races' ship, and is using it for whatever purpose they have devised. It would not be the first time such a thing has happened." 

Picard smiled ruefully. Wouldn't that be nice… then Commander T'Marid answered, the Trill officer displaying a surprising grasp of human history. 

"The ship is practically covered in iconography from several periods of Earth's pre-warp history. The runes on the hull, the pictograms on the bow, the style of architecture. The layout of the thing. If it isn't human, it's the best imitation I think I've seen. The pictograms and painted emblems, sure, a religious group could do that. But the whole thing looks like a space-going temple. The refit work would be too intensive to be practical. That's a human ship, Centurion. Not Federation. Human." 

"How do we know it's not some elaborate Federation attempt to undermine the Empire?" 

An incensed Ryalak roared back. 

"CENTURION. You will hold your tongue or return to the _Minnkash'Maen_. I will not tolerate disrespect to our hosts." 

Picard responded lightly, almost chuckling, but not quite. 

"Commander Ryalak, Centurion Ree, if that was a Federation ship, we'd have no need to be subtle at all. Number one, if you'd share the technical details with our guests." 

Commander Yee nodded once to his commanding officer, then began speaking. His basic was fractionally accented, with his oriental roots flavouring his grasp of English slightly. 

"The vessel has been identified to us as the _Sword of Lycurgas._ For reference, Lycurgas was an ancient human warrior who codified a series of laws for use by a human military-state, nearly three thousand years ago. The ship does not match any design specifications or records found in any Federation technical archives, and I'm assuming the same on the Romulan side. 

The _Sword of Lycurgas_ is eighteen kilometres long, and sweeps of the hull indicate that it is close to four thousand years old. The hull is composed of several distinct materials, including a petro-steel derivative, a ferro-crete based substance, and adamantium. In fact, there is a great deal of adamantium on that ship. There is more adamantium on that ship than has ever been located in one place, before." 

What Commander Yee didn't say was that he seriously doubted the Federation had enough adamantium within its borders to build a ship that size. 

"It has weapons, of that we are sure, but they have yet to be revealed to us, and are not of any recognised design. Scans have been unable to pick up any numbers or throughput/output calculations with any degree of certainty, as the technology they're using is very different to that which we are used to." 

Yee stood, and walked over to a part of the wall of the ready room, and pressed some buttons. 

"Computer, lights to 25 percent. Show schematics, _Sword of Lycurgas_." 

The projector turned on, showing a 3D representation of the warship, rotating slowly along its Y-axis. 

"Increase projection size, 50 percent, indicate launch bays". 

The projection grew in size, and four areas of the ship began flashing red. Yee began again. 

"As far as we can tell, these areas here are launch pads, shuttle bays, or something of that nature. The main doors to those bays, as far as we are able to ascertain, are in the order of fifteen metres high, and approximately eighty metres wide. They are located, as you can see, spaced along the line of the hull, along both the port and starboard sides." 

He gave his audience time to digest that information, then continued. 

"Computer, display probable-command centre" 

A flashing blue light appeared on the high aft of the _Sword_. 

"This is what we believe to be the bridge. It is very prominent, and we believe heavily armoured as well as shielded. There are also, as you can see, a great deal of protrusions from many points along the hull, and several larger than most. We believe that many of the larger ones are weapons, but this is hypothetical." 

Another voice command, and the rear of the _Sword_ was highlighted in electric blue. 

"Engines. Their power is unknown." 

He shut down the projection. 

"The greatest note so far, as I'm sure you're all aware, is the vessel's shields. They are sizeable. Behind those shields, that vessel is all but impervious to our weaponry." 

He paused again, eyes roving across his audience. 

"There are twelve thousand, four hundred and fifteen lifesigns aboard. One hundred and twelve are non-human. Both figures have fallen since first contact was made. We do not know, but we estimate that they were casualties that did not survive." 

There was a three-second silence before Ryalak spoke. 

"Our scans were unable to penetrate the vessel's hull. Are you certain of those numbers?" 

Picard answered for his subordinate. 

"As certain as we can be, Commander. We don't know what technology this group is utilising, so we can't be certain that there aren't more aboard. Nor can we, more importantly, be certain of their intentions." 

T'Marid looked like he was about to interject, but Picard kept going. 

"They have claimed a navigational error. It's certainly within the bounds of possibility, but not altogether likely. I don't even remember the last recorded instance of a starfleet vessel just plain getting lost. And aside from a number of instances along the neutral zone, I'd wager the same thing with regard to Romulan vessels." 

Everyone at the table, Romulan and Federation, chuckled at that. There was no politics here. And Picard found himself quietly wandering why the entente between the United Federation of Planets and the Romulan Star Empire had taken so long to manifest. But no matter. They were thoughts for another time. 

"Needless to say, their actual intentions remain unknown. I'd like to say we'll handle it when we find out… but, in all honesty I don't know that we can." 

Picard's words hung in the room. No one had admitted it yet. No one had wanted to admit it. But that hadn't changed the fact of the matter. The three ships that the Federation-Romulan task force had between them were hopelessly outgunned. 

"I propose to send a message to Starfleet, informing them of the magnitude of this situation, and its possible repercussions. I intend to request that command hold a fleet in reserve to respond if this situation spirals out of control." 

Picard turned and looked straight at Ryalak, piercing eyes boring straight past all of the Romulan commander's mental defences and conveying the hidden urgency behind Picard's words. 

"I request that you make the same request of Romulus, Commander." 

Releasing Ryalak from his eyeshot, he addressed the rest of the room once again. 

"Until I receive word from Starfleet, I will attempt to ascertain the motivations of this 'Brother-Captain', and what he intends to do with that ship of his. Any questions or comments?" 

The room was again quiet for a couple of seconds, before, perhaps predictably, Ryalak spoke. 

"Captain Picard, I must inform you that there is no guarantee that Romulus will agree to send more ships. The political situation is… delicate. Praetor Donatra… is finding that she feels more comfortable maintaining fleets closer to Romulus than many of her predecessors. Without a directly manifesting threat to the Empire, she may choose not to intervene." 

The silence around the table suddenly became far, far, far more awkward. Ryalak couldn't have dropped more of a bombshell if he had asked Picard if he could sell the _Enterprise_ to a Ferengi. Ryalak had just, in one sentence, illustrated a fact that could alter the balance of power in the Alpha Quadrant. 

Praetor Donatra, former captain of the _Valdore_, had the distinguished position as first female Praetor of the Romulan Star Empire, and was well known for her generally positive stance towards the Federation. Her rise to power was based upon her success at combating the Reman uprising that had previously swept Praetor Shinzon to power. That she had quelled the Reman uprising with Federation assistance, and had fought alongside Federation forces at the Battle of Bassen Rift, worked both for and against her on Romulus. It would seem that the balance remained fairly precarious. THAT was unfortunate news for the Federation. Praetor Donatra was widely regarded as the best thing for Federation relations since the Khitomer Accords. Her replacement would be a huge blow to Federation interests… and quite possibly to Romulan attempts to interact amicably with the rest of the universe. 

She knew it. Her supporters knew it. 

And now the Federation knew just how dire her position was, if one of her supporters had been forced to admit that she may not be able to spare the ships to fight for her allies. 

That meant complications. Without Romulan assistance, the Federation would have to handle the situation on its own… with the _Minnkash'Maen_ as token Romulan assistance. Hawks within the Federation Cabinet would want to use this as an excuse not to allow the Romulans access to any positive outcomes from the presence of the _Sword of Lycurgas_. That, in turn, would undermine Praetor Donatra's position further, and undercut the gradually building groundswell of support for the Federation amongst the Romulan citizenry in the aftermath of both the Reman coup and the earlier Dominion War. 

Picard pursed his lips. Why was nothing ever easy? The Federation would work, and possibly fight, to obtain as much information on the _Sword of Lycurgas_ as possible, and then they would likely hand it over to the Romulans. He frowned some more. In all likelihood, Picard would petition that they do just that. 

A soft smile broke over his face, dispelling the frown that had so recently grown there. Who would have thought it? He, Jean-Luc Picard, as a proponent for handing over technology to the Romulans. 

But there it was. The Romulans were unlikely to provide much by the way of support, and, while Picard regretted the fact, he couldn't fault the Praetor's reasoning. He'd do it with whatever he could. 

But who knew? Maybe the _Sword _would be just fine in a couple of hours to days, would leave and return to wherever they came from, and nothing would come of it except some very strange reports going across Admiral Janeway's desk. 

'Of course'. Picard thought to himself, sarcastically. 'A ship with twelve thousand humans on board appears in the middle of the neutral zone, and Starfleet will choose to ignore it and let its revolutionary technology float off into the ether'. 

"Were she to choose not to intervene, Commander, then we would of course accept that, and hold true to our word. A discovery of this magnitude could have wondrous or calamitous consequences. Either way, all of the Federation would prefer a relaxed and co-operative Empire to a hostile one. Please, pass on my regards to the Praetor, when you speak to her." 

Ryalak nodded his head once, a curt, dignified motion that spoke volumes about the common ancestry between Romulans and Vulcans. 

"I shall, Captain. In the meantime, how can I, and my ship, be of best service?" 

Another first. They were coming too think and fast to be noteworthy any more. 

"To a large extent, that, and our own decisions, will be based on Starfleet's response, and whether or not the _Sword of Lycurgas_ gets back to us at all. In the meantime, I'll have Lieutenant Brennaman send a situation report to Starfleet. If you could let Romulus know, in any case, Commander, that'd be a big help. We'll take whatever we can get, on the off chance that she can spare anything. Broadly, we can only wait." 

Commander Ryalak nodded again, and Picard looked at the faces around the table. Even the moderately hostile Centurion appeared to have been placated somewhat. 

"If that's all, gentlemen, then lets get back to work." 

They rose from their seats and moved for the door. Picard spoke again. 

"Commander Ryalak, if you have a moment…" 

Ryalak dipped his head, and turned to Centurion Ree. 

"Return to the _Minnkash'Maen._ Call a conference of the senior officers. I'lol backbrief them myself, when I return." 

"It shall be as you say, Commander." 

The centurion turned on his heel and walked out briskly, his discomfort at being on the Federation vessel plain to see. Ryalak turned to Picard once more. It was Picard that spoke first. 

"Would you like a drink, Commander?" 

Ryalak paused, a smile -or a smirk- playing on the edge of his mouth. 

"Don't suppose you happen to have a Romulan ale, Captain?" 

Picard chuckled. He should have guessed. 

"Computer, tea, Earl Grey, hot, and a Romulan ale, authentication Picard x-ray tango three four eight seven echo." 

"An authentication code required?" 

"Romulan ale is substantially stronger than most of the drinks we allow on our ships, Commander. But I think this is an acceptable exception to the rules." 

"What can I do for you, Captain?" 

Picard went back to the table, and sat down, the Romulan commander taking a chair to his right and accepting the offered beverage. 

"Commander, there isn't a great deal I would ask of you. Not a great deal that I CAN ask of you at the moment. But I just wanted to extend my thanks to you for being as accommodating as you have been." 

Ryalak nodded slowly, then responded. 

"Too many lives have been lost, Captain. Too many lives on both sides. Despite our frequent underhanded action, you have treated us with respect throughout our history, even while our two people fought. Praetor Donatra seeks an end to the cycle of mistrust. I concur with her objective. I hope that we can start something, here." 

Picard looked at Ryalak with a fresh perspective, and more than a little hope. Who would have thought it? Then, he raised his teacup off the table, and gestured to the Romulan with it. 

"To a new future." 

The Romulan's face split into a rarely seen true smile, and he lifted his glass to Picard in return. 

"To a new future, indeed."   



	12. Outbound aged words

Thank you once again for the reviews, and sorry for the delay. The time pressures of real life unfortunately impinge upon my writing time. shrug The army pays me. This, again unfortunately, doesn't. 

Liljimmyurine: Yes, political machinations are the bread and butter of the elite in any society. The Romulans make no bones about politics being important. The Federation pretends otherwise… but we all know the real story… 

Mountain King: Thank you greatly for the compliment. I have wanted to build a story, not just wow everyone in the Federation with the power of an Imperial fleet… although Entilza did a pretty good job of so doing, having said that. Apologies if the Klingon readings were confusing… I was being serious though… two hearts, three lungs, solid bone structure, vastly increased muscle mass, faster metabolic rates, denser skin, physically larger… I'd have thought that the lifesigns would have been passably similar to a Klingon's. We know that the "lifesign" sweeps that ST vessels use are not DNA based… I assumed that little tit-bit about Klingon similarity. Thoughts? Oh, and, incidentally, I made the assumption that the self-destruct sequence would be a different code to the replicator override. 

Raziel: Yeah, it's a tricky one. If my calculations are correct (and again, there's a lot of guess work here), the Eldar civilisation's centre was based roughly in the centre of the Eye of Terror, up along the northern reaches of the Segmentum Obscuras. That would place them on the edge of either the Beta or Gamma quadrants… unfortunately regions of space that are "occupied" in ST canon. In one case by the Klingons, in the other by the Dominion. There's plenty of unaccounted for space in the Delta quadrant… but the location is wrong. Still open to ideas, but I'm tempted just to stick my literary head in the sand and ignore it. 

AureliusBarzano: The bewildering array of possible factions within the Inquisition that could have interesting repercussions on this story allows for a great deal of flexibility. Who knows… I might throw one in yet. And cheers for the space marines as thinking soldiers thing. As I may have written before, as a full-time member of the army myself, I can tell you that stupidity does not promote longevity. 

Grayangle: Ah, but mismatched time lines allow for such wonderful things as causality loops… and those things are a fiction writer's wet dream. 

And, once more thank you all for the reviews. It's nice to know that some people, for some Emperor-known reason, actually seem to enjoy reading the hogwash that passes for writing coming out of my keyboard. And, on that happy note… 

Lycurgas was abuzz. The 2nd Company was mobilising. Not that a company leaving on very short notice was exceptionally unusual. In fact, in was almost an every day occurrence. But losing an entire company, piecemeal, wasn't, and the sudden mobilisation of the forces tasked to finding them had set the place afire with expectation. 

Brother-Captain Lysander had donned his power armour, and had his power sword sheathed at his side. His grey cloak billowed out behind him as he strode out of his quarters towards the spaceport, and the waiting ship. 

The 2nd Company's transport, the strike cruiser _Leonidas,_ was the fastest ship in the chapter, Lysander's personal favourite. He had served on many, but had fallen in love with the ship when he rode on it for the first time. While no more heavily armoured than any marine strike cruiser, the _Leonidas_ had twenty percent more thrust, at both warp and subwarp speeds, and had a three-lance dorsal turret with a 270 degree forward arc of fire, mounted just forward and below the bridge. The striking power of that turret was ably demonstrated when it mutilated the White Hellion strike cruiser _Blazing Covenant_ before it was able to swing sideways to bring its starboard batteries to bear. Add to the fact that it could swing sideways to support a conventional broadside in either direction, and Lysander was more than happy with his chapter's little addition to the ship. 

And the selection of the _Leonidas_ was not just fortuitous chance. Lysander was taking his company to meet with the Dark Templars on Nadgazad. The Dark Templars also had cause to be thankful for the _Leonidas_. Its presence was a subtle reminder of the number of times that its guns, firing down from orbit, had saved one of their companies from being overwhelmed on Beta Mithrax. The Dark Templars had a strongly developed sense of honour… and the Deathbringer brother-captain had every intention of reminding then of their debt. In as pleasant a way as possible, of course. True alliances between marine chapters were remarkably rare, and this one was serving both parties very well indeed. 

A scout came trotting up behind him. 

"Excuse, my lord brother-captain." 

Lysander propped and spun, whirling on the startled scout with a speed that belied the enormous weight of his power armour. 

"Yes? What is it?" 

Surprised at so abrupt an address, the scout seemed at a loss for a second, before he composed himself, straightening his back in defiance of the intimidation that the brother-captain invariably generated. 

"Master Ragarik requests your presence at his sanctuary, my lord." 

Lysander frowned. Not that he was surprised that the chapter master was up, it was 0445 in any case, but surprised that he'd want to talk to him. Ragarik trusted his senior officers to do their jobs correctly, and professionally. 

But he was the chapter master. He wouldn't be sending someone for him on a whim. 

"Very well. If he did not require you to report back to him, then you may return to your duties." 

"Thank you, my lord." 

The walk to the chapter master's sanctuary was always a nice one. The view across the mountains was spectacular, and the groves of trees that lined the avenue through the fortress monastery were beautiful. Deathbringers were one of very few chapters that would have appreciated it. Lysander had once fought alongside Blood Angels, and got on particularly well with them. They had a love of aesthetics and beauty, art and culture, far in excess of that displayed by most marine chapters. 

Lysander mused over that as his echoing footsteps rang throughout the reinforced stone courtyard. They were an unusual chapter, the Blood Angels. Noble, dignified, brutally effective, and loyal to the Emperor, and had been since the Great Crusade. But they always seemed so sad, and carried a melancholic burden on their souls that stopped their smiles from ever truly reaching their eyes. 

'One day', Lysander thought, pausing and looking at the view across the peaks and valleys, from the head of the stone steps to the high sanctuary, 'I'll have to invite Brother-Captain Aurelian here. A shame that the Blood Angels haven't had a chance to see this.' 

But, with that last thought, a muttered prayer to the Emperor and a deep breath, more for patience than anything else, he pushed aside the four metre high iron-studded doors to the Master's inner chambers. 

Chapter Master Wilhelm Amadeus Ragarik had ruled the Deathbringers for six hundred years. He was the oldest living Deathbringer, and only the fourth master in the chapter's history. He had fought the Emperor's foes under the Lambda of Lycurgas for nearly 900 years. He was immensely old, even for a space marine, but, in the manner of most space marines, did not show it, save for his shock of mithril grey hair. He was as spry and powerful as ever, and his shoulders showed, broad and powerful, under his grey robes. 

When his aide had told him that the 2nd was mobilising for immediate departure, he'd assumed that Richard Lysander had good reason. Ragarik had tasked the brother-captain to working out what in blazes had happened to the _Sword of Lycurgas_, and he had every confidence that the man would be doing so, to the best of his ability. But Lysander hadn't come to him to tell him that the _Sword_ had been found, nor had he come to him saying it was lost. 

And when the _Leonidas_' departure log came up, showing an intended course to Nadgazad, headquarters of the Dark Templars, Ragarik became very curious indeed. And not just because the _Leonidas_ was a valuable part of the fleet. Richard had grown on him. 

In more ways than one, Ragarik missed being able to grab a ship and jet off into space on the Emperor's work. To take his company, sally forth and strike at His foes, like the very hammer of His wrath. He smiled wistfully. He knew that he was doing great things in His name. He knew it. Knew that hundreds of worlds that owed their freedom to the Deathbringers appreciated it. But it wasn't quite so satisfying. Brother-Captain was definitely the best rank in the chapter. Enough authority to choose how you wished to conduct your duty. Enough freedom to be able to enjoy it. Not that commanding the entirety of the 892nd Chapter wasn't satisfying. But, unless the engagement was major, and required an investment of a substantial portion of the chapter's resources, Ragarik would be right here, training, ordering and organising. 

Not fighting. Despite his fondness for it. He was, very literally, built for it. And the bureaucracy required to effectively run the Deathbringers' small interstellar empire was important, but stultifying. 

The wooden doors to his sanctuary opened, and the brother-captain walked in. Ragarik smiled, both to himself, and to his subordinate. The younger man was, like Ragarik himself, huge. Just over seven feet of muscle. His armour didn't make him any smaller, either. Seeing the men that made up the fighting arm of the chapter always made Ragarik proud. With such as them at His side, who could stand against the Emperor? 

"Come in, Richard, come in. Sit down. I doubt this'll take long, I know you're keen to get moving." 

Lysander moved over to the wooden chair in front of the chapter master's desk, and sat on it, the antiquarian furnishings entirely at odds with the cutting edge technology concealed unobtrusively beneath the gilded exterior. 

"Thank you, Master, I do intend to make for Nadgazad promptly. The faster we get there, the better." 

"That is, actually, my question, Richard. Why are you going to Nadgazad?" 

Lysander mentally smacked himself in the head. Telling the chapter master why he was dragging the entirety of one of his companies to the other side of the segmentum would have been courteous. 

"Oh, forgive me, my lord, in my haste I forgot to inform you of…" 

Ragarik interrupted him with a raised hand. 

"Richard. Relax. You can tell me now. Where are you taking your company, son? And why are you taking it there?" 

The brother-captain's rueful grimace was priceless, Ragarik thought. Lysander had carved bloody swathes through ork hordes, faced down traitor marines in single combat, stood fast against tyranids like a rock against the tide, and more, and in doing all of the above, had never, not once, faltered. 

So it was very funny to see him embarrassed and hesitant before the chapter master he had served under, and fought beside, for centuries. 

But, like the good marine officer he was, his hesitation was fleeting. With a smile that was ever so slight, a barely seen but very telegraphed acknowledgment of Ragarik's humour, Lysander began. 

"My lord, at 4189906M41, the _Sword_ sent an astro-telepathic broadcast to Command, here on Lycurgas. Shortly before that, it had rendezvoused with a Dark Templar strike cruiser. As Adept Van Prof, the transmitter of that message, was sending to Lycurgas, rather than to a specific individual, any astropaths within the receipt band would have received it, although most likely been unable to interpret it. I propose to meet with the Templars on Nadgazad, and discuss the movements of that strike cruiser, and attempt to retrace the _Sword_'s final steps." 

Ragarik nodded to himself. He didn't really need to be kept informed. Lysander knew what he was doing. But still… information on his own chapter's deployments was a good thing, for his responsibility as well as his curiosity. 

"Good to hear, brother-captain. Keep me appraised." 

Lysander nodded curtly, accepting the implied very soft rebuke for what it was. 

"Of course, my lord." 

Ragarik smiled at him. He still remembered him entering the chapter, those many, many years ago. He had come far. And he'd do well. Ragarik waved his right hand towards the door, and Lysander. 

"Go then, Brother-Captain. And may the Emperor be with you" 

"And with you, sir." 

Lysander was at the threshold of Ragarik's sanctuary when the chapter master's voice stopped him. 

"Richard" 

Lysander half turned, looking over his right shoulder at the chapter master who, despite his size and obvious power, suddenly looked very, very old. 

"Bring Ed back." 


	13. Will of tomorrow

FFF: Have faith in the plotline. I am aware of the base mechanics and principles of (and behind) the concepts of temporal continuity and temporal causality. Well picked up on, nonetheless… but all will be revealed in the fullness of time, as the Emperor wills it. Parallelity is a cop-out. 

Shinova: Thank you and I appreciate your acknowledgment of the difference. I do try. The disparity, economically, socially, technologically, culturally, and so on, between the Federation and Imperium are what makes this story interesting to write. 

Somos: Real life keeps me from this… I pray to the Emperor for guidance. Not strength. If I were granted strength, I'd just end up killing people… Oh, wait… 

As usual, all reviews are greatly appreciated. They are like CPR to my muse. Story's dead without it… 

Space Marine training had no course in temporal mechanics. Haruman seriously doubted that any race, save, perhaps, the C'tan, had any real understanding of the ins and outs of time travel. It wasn't something considered by the Imperium at large. And so far ago as to be beyond the reach of any Imperial records. Or, at least, any Imperial records that Haruman was privy to. 

Which, he mused, wasn't really all that much. While he had access to everything that his chapter, by no means a small one, could dig up, the Imperial Archives, on Terra, and the secret files of the Inquisition, stored Emperor-knew-where, were another story entirely. The archives on Terra, in particular, were so old as to be more-than-partly ruinous. But, in short, Haruman really didn't know where to begin, where time travel was concerned. 

But, by his order, the senior brothers of the company were sitting, once more, in his ready room, awaiting his orders. What he didn't, wouldn't, couldn't admit was that he was so far out of his depth as to be absurd. Sure. Three hundred years of combat experience. But this was a long way outside it. 

"Brothers, we have an uncomfortable situation. One that none of us have encountered before." 

He paused. And inwardly grimaced. Here was a turn of events that was most unusual… he was about to shock the entirety of a marine company's senior staff into silence. Simultaneously. If the situation weren't so grim, he'd have been tempted to laugh. 

"It appears that Brother-Librarian Bortalus has made a correct assertion. We are indeed no longer in our own time. We have travelled into the past." 

The marines around him were, indeed, silent. Less shocked than Haruman had expected, but Bortalus' words ringing true would have had something to do with that. He'd spoken sagely earlier, and his words would have softened the blow. It was that same man who spoke next. 

"How far into the past have we travelled, Brother-Captain?" 

Haruman looked down briefly, and took a very unseemly intake of breath to fortify himself. 

"Brothers, our calculations have put us in the early years of the third millennium. Thirty eight thousand years back." 

The chaplain was first to respond, after a couple of seconds of deliberation. 

"What's going on in the Imperium in this time?" 

The grizzled chaplain had asked exactly the question that Haruman didn't know how to answer. How does one tell a priest that they are in a time before his God? How do you tell soldiers that the state, the Empire that they serve with their every waking moment simply doesn't exist? 

"Chaplain, brothers, in all honesty, we cannot be certain that the Imperium yet exists. I believe that, in all likelihood, that vessel, under Captain Picard, constitutes a part of the space-borne arm of humanity's military, in this time. That is estimation. But I believe it to be an accurate estimate, nonetheless." 

Shenyavin was not yet convinced, that much was clear to see. 

"Sir, how do we know this? 38,000 years is no hop skip and jump. We have no certainty here, surely?" 

Haruman had expected the question, and could answer with greater surety, in content at any rate. 

"The _Enterprise_ has provided us with a set of navigational co-ordinates. Very old, in style, but fortunately still within accepted archival parameters…" 

"Like reading DOS on a comp-unit?" Asked one of the techmarines, referring to an ancient information storage back-up system. 

"Exactly. Still works, as the guiding principles are still there. The co-ordinates they gave, according to the crew, are the same as our co-ordinates immediately prior to our engagement with the raider. There is no way that anyone aboard Picard's ship could have known of that battle, especially given the lack of debris from that fight. By rights, there should be a trail a blind man could follow. But there's nothing." 

He paused for breath, and pondered how to phrase the next parts of his statement. 

"Further, there are the other conclusions that we reached earlier. No astronomicon. Presence of the Emperor missing from the warp. Astropaths going mad. Navigational instruments conflicting with the chronometers. Gentlemen, I'd say the arguments in favour are uncomfortably convincing." 

Hensher responded again. 

"Do we know anything of what IS going on?" 

"At this stage, we have three ships out there. Two appear to be multi-racial ships, with large numbers of xenos aboard. The third is crewed entirely by a single xenos species. But we've covered that before. We know that humans form at the very least a large proportion of a space-capable, organised state. Further, they cannot be held accountable for their heresy. While the Ecclesiarchy and Inquisition would hold that ignorance is no excuse for failure to follow His light, in this case, and in this time, He does not give His light to follow. Individually, the ships we have seen so far are very small, and are unlikely to put up a great deal of resistance. We do not, however, have any idea of what other vessels, nor how many, nor of the number of worlds, nor do we know anything of their government, people, population, diplomacy, industry or technology. Also, importantly, we don't know what they know, or think they know, about us, nor what they intend to do about it." 

Then, changing tack with characteristic alacrity… 

"Nor do we know how to, or even if we can, return to the 41st millennium." 

Haruman paused two beats, letting his men process that information for a second, before going on. 

"Not being one that makes a habit of time travel, I don't profess to know of the impacts we could have. In short… we're in the dark. I've called you all in to lay out these facts, and so we can put our heads together. Again." 

Hensher spoke first, earnestly, and a little out of character. 

"Destroy the ship. Set the self-destruct, and destroy every trace that we were here. We are gambling with the future of the entire Imperium with every moment we dally. The loss of this ship, and its crew, while it will hurt our chapter, is nothing when set against the entirety of human history for the next thirty eight thousand years. One miss-step, and we could knock entire systems out of the timeline completely." 

Haruman nodded slowly. He had considered that. 

"But, there is another angle to that, Chaplain. What if our presence here is required for an event or events that are important to the timeline's preservation? By our own destruction, we could well create jeopardise the future from an entirely different direction." 

Silence, once more. Two angles, mutually exclusive, both cataclysmic, potentially. An incorrect call, and then… well, no one knew the answer to THAT, either. 

The silence reigned. Minutes past. Millenia of expertise in the room. Thousands of years of accumulated experience. But not in this field. Shenyavin spoke next. 

"Damned if we do. Damned if we don't. Can't tell which. Can't measure the chances either way. If you ask me, that takes them out of the equation. We can't address that issue. We just have no way to make that call." 

Haruman's face moved in the beginnings of a smile. Mike had summarised things in a different way. But he could see where the man was going with his train of thought. To the Brother-Sergeant's credit, he had left the conclusion to be drawn by Haruman, and make the thought appear to be the officer's own. And, at the same time, Shenyavin quite possibly had succeeded in saving the lives of everyone on board the _Sword of Lycurgas._

"Well put, brother. And if we cannot determine whether our deaths will serve good or ill, then we are doing nothing save throwing away our lives. And throwing away or lives, as we all know, is dereliction of our duty to the Emperor, and our chapter. Thank you, brother-sergeant. We stay. And seek a means to return to our own time. With no way of knowing whether our actions fit with the timeline, or not, we must act using the Emperor-given gifts of reason and intellect that we possess. We can do nothing else." 

Hensher's eye's narrowed fractionally. 

"Brother-Captain, are you saying that we should disregard the fact that we are in another time, and do the best we can while we are here? Because that sounds to me to be exactly what you are saying." 

Harsh, and confrontational words they may have sounded, but the twinkle in his eyes gave the chaplain away. That and Haruman's centuries of knowing the man. 

"Precisely." 

Hensher broke into an open grin. 

"Then, in the Emperor's name, I congratulate you. That is something we can work with." 

The change in mood was infectious. From solemn and downcast, the room was suddenly pervaded by a new optimism. Not enthusiasm. That was far too strong. But they were space marines. And not just that. They were Deathbringers. Soldiers of the God-Emperor's 892nd Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes. They had a situation to resolve. And one they would resolve. 

"So, that being the case, what do we do about it? We have three ships out there that, in essence, want answers as to why we are in their space. I've told them, as you know, that we are lost. Which we were. But aren't now. Where do we go from here?" 

Brother-Lieutenant Warren answered. 

"We could ask them for assistance in repair, for parts and so forth. Assuming they have any. Or, failing that, or even in addition to that, we could undertake diplomatic liasions on behalf of the Imperium. They are, after all, other states, and, out here, we ARE the Imperium…" 

Atrimees chimed in. 

"I doubt that those ships would have the spare parts required for even a third of the repairs we need. Our systems are functioning, barely, but we have no redundancy or safeties operational at present. If anything else goes wrong, or gets through the shields, well… we're probably all dead." 

The man frowned. 

"Well, I say that from Imperial experiences, brothers. But, well, these ships are tiny… and our hull is intact… I don't know. We could be fine… but we're hurting here. Lets not lose that." 

Warren responded again. 

"So, lets ask them for assistance. Regardless of their capabilities, they'll have more that they can help us with, but they won't give it if we don't ask for it. Any help is better than none." 

The unspoken 'even from xenos' floated through the room. Deathbringers, irony in nomenclature aside, were far less xenophobic than the norm. A fact that had not sat well with the Inquisition. 

Atrimees countered again. 

"Is it wise to show weakness to them? They may try to take advantage of it." 

"They might, but they won't know the extent of the damage, unless we tell them, and we still outsize them." 

"Putting our requests to them, to complete strangers, would indicate the extent of our difficulty. We know _nothing _of them. Nothing. We should at least establish that before we proceed." 

Bortalus interrupted the argument. 

"I can do that, brothers." 

All eyes in the room turned to the psyker. Of course. An avenue that space marines rarely utilised, but it was there. Haruman nodded again. 

"Of course. How remiss of us. Brother-Librarian, if you would be so good as to examine the minds of our counterparts out there…" he gestured with his power-armoured left hand in the general direction of where the _Enterprise_ sat in space. 

The librarian bowed his head, and closed his eyes. The gathered marines watched as an electric blue nimbus of light crackled around his head. Then the psyker opened his eyes, which glowed with an otherworldly yellow light, at the same moment as the sparkling energy shifted from blue to red. He began to speak, his voice's pitch rising, and timbre changing. Picard's voice came forth from the librarian's mouth, sounding strange coming from such a large frame. 

"Captains log, supplemental…." 

Haruman's face broke into a grin. They couldn't have picked a better time. 

"We have yet to receive a response from the _Sword of Lycurgas_, and their intentions remain unknown. While they are without a doubt human, and aboard a human warship of some description, their true plans and motivation remain a mystery. They have claimed to be lost, but the lack of response since we transmitted navigational co-ordinates is concerning. 

The ship is enormous. Easily the mass equivalent of half of Starfleet. Further, what we have seen of its power output appears to be in proportion. 

With this in mind, I have transmitted a message to Starfleet, informing them both of the nature and possible threat posed by the ship, and of our agreement with the Romulans. The inability of the Romulans to send more vessels is worrying, but unavoidable. With luck, Starfleet will respond in strength." 

Red lightning flared orange, then back to crimson. The psyker's voice reverted to his own. 

"Meeting resistance, Brother-Captain. There are psykers aboard their vessel." 

Haruman frowned. A complication. 

"Continue, Brother-Librarian, such as you are able." 

"As you command, Brother-Captain." 

The librarian bowed his head and closed his eyes. Then, raising his head and opening them once more, his eyes blazed with internal bloodfire. Once more Picard's voice came to the fore. 

Bortalus struggled to maintain the telepathic link. Picard's mind was harder than most navy officers, accustomed as most of them were to their plush staterooms and physically undemanding service. This mind bespoke of hardship in service to his people, and of intellect, training, command and instinct. Along with a hint of something that smelt like tea. 

The man's mind resisted the intrusion. Subconsciously, so it appeared, but it resisted nonetheless. 

'This mind has been attacked before' Bortalus thought. 'It's wary of the intrusion'. 

He focused again, and spoke as the Federation Captain. 

"The crew has been nervous. The _Sword of Lycurgas_ is a very imposing vessel, perhaps deliberately so, and its size is a matter of concern in itself. We continue to liase with the Romulans, and with Captain Keenan on the _Intrepid_, in an attempt to determine vulnerabilities we could theoretically utilise. The nature of the vessel, however, is so alien as to be beyond comprehension. Its technological basis is completely unknown, and its occupants equally so. We bear them no malice, yet again, cannot help but wonder about their intentions, for all their reassurances." 

Bortalus' throat made a chiming sound noise, before continuing in the voice of Picard. 

"Pause log. Enter." 

The psyker's face and eyebrows shifted, and the voice when it came out was still higher, and decidedly feminine, in stark, glaring contrast to the seven foot, broad shouldered marine it came from. 

"Excuse me, Captain, sorry to disturb you." 

Haruman frowned. The new voice was unknown. The librarian's voice shifted again, responding as Picard. 

"Counsellor. What can I do for you?" 

"Sir, I have detected an unknown telepathic signature. I asked a number of the crew, and they have confirmed it." 

"It's not the Romulans, that much we can be certain of. Which makes it far more likely to be coming from the _Sword of Lycurgas_. Thank you counsellor, I will…" 

Picard's voice trailed off, and Bortalus winced. The man was resisting consciously. It was Bortalus' own voice that spoke next. 

"He is aware of my presence, Brother-Captain." 

Haruman nodded. They had what they needed to know. 

"Break off, brother. Your efforts have told us what we needed. Can you tell us any more of your impressions?" 

The lightshow about the librarian's head died, and his eyes lost their otherworldly glow, as the man focused once more on the material plane. 

"He is a strong man, brother-captain, and has seen much in his short life. He is, as much as he knows, being honest with us, and intends to continue as such. While wary, he bears us no malice, or ill-will." 

"Reassuring news indeed, brother-librarian. Well, brothers, we should thank the Emperor that the people here appear decent. Or, at least, consider themselves to be such." 

There were general nods of murmurs and agreement around the table, before Haruman spoke again. 

"Let us contact them, and inquire…" 

The ships internal comm-system interrupted the Brother-Captain. 

"Bridge to Brother-Captain Haruman". 

"Go ahead." 

"Sir, the _Enterprise_ is hailing us." 

"On my way." 

He shifted his gaze back to the assembled senior staff. 

"Brothers, I want you to sit in on this. Use the observation deck. I don't want to keep Picard waiting." 

Without waiting for a response, Haruman pushed his seat back, got to his feet, and headed for the bridge. A scant four minutes later, Shenyavin signalled that the senior brothers were in position. 

"Bondsman, on screen, if you would." 

The starfield was replaced by the image of the Federation captain, standing in front of his seat, and all but glaring at the space marine. Picard began without preamble. 

"Brother-Captain, I you owe us an explanation."


	14. Looking in a nightmare mirror

Mountain King: Aye. They do owe him an explanation.

The Sithspawn:Thank you. Here is more, presented, for your pleasure…

Oblivionknight7:I shall. As fast as real life permits. Like now…

Grayangle:The Emperor is indeed alive. Whether he will appear, centrally, in passing or at all, in this story, is being pondered.

Raziel616:No, warp rifts are not common in the ST Alpha Quadrant. Whether the Emperor chooses to do anything about it… is yet to be revealed. Which translates nicely into… I don't know yet…

Liljimmyurine:Thank you for your support. It is appreciated, and your faith in my abilities is gratifying. I do not need instruction on WH40k history, but my knowledge is not perfect, and I do miss things. Cheers :)

Huh:Apologies for not being able to correctly spell your log-in name. Marines are technophobic, but perhaps techno-uncomfortable would be a better way of describing them. Data is dead. Died at the end of ST:Nemesis, and I am attempting to stay as close to canon as FF permits. But accurate observation nonetheless. He would have made them very uncomfortable. And Space Marines in corridors… would have to bend over. I'm sure that, if push came to shove, they'd make do… As for there being no warp… mmmmmmm… not quite. The warp is less daemon-y… but it IS there. I doubt chaos will make much of an appearance in this story, as it happens.

HecatonchiresLM:Space Wolves are not formal. Crimson Fists, Salamanders and Raven Guard are often semi-formal. Perhaps my own military background is influencing my writing… actually, wait, scratch that, I KNOW my military background is influencing my writing, but the Deathbringers are a combat force, first and foremost, and as suchI write them as such. Formal, as they are always on duty, but that doesn't preclude some relaxation. Think of a mess dinner. If we had to be formal when having a mess dinner, I'd go nuts. Some chapters (read, Dark Angels and successors) are, but Deathbringers tend to be a little more lax than that. Perhaps I'll post a Deathbringer history, in the same way as the Crimson Guardians posted their history up… Hmmmmmmm… food for thought…

Ssj4nappa:Thank you. Mmmmmmmmmm… I'm saying that a lot today…

VexedDuck/bow/ Thank you. The Emperor blesses all of us. He is our salvation, and our faith in him is our greatest armour, and our strongest weapon.

Now, without further ado…

Picard was angry. Angry with Haruman, angry with the _Sword_ for simply existing, and angry at himself for not having the foresight to allow for the presence of a telepath. Many races had telepathy in varying degrees. Simply because the _Sword_ _of Lycurgas_ was crewed primarily by humans did not mean that the other race on board did not possess telepathic capability. And Picard, and possibly his ship, and starfleet, the Federation, and perhaps even the entire quadrant could well pay for that oversight. An oversight that had been exploited in spectacular fashion.

Nevertheless, the brother-captain had acted quite improperly, and Picard, by first contact principles, had every reason to be angry. Telepathic eavesdropping was a huge act of bad faith, and Haruman had to know that. Picard wanted an explanation.

And so he waited for it. Watching Haruman's reactions, and trying to gauge his intent. The man was exceptionally difficult to read. But his words seemed reasoned enough, when they came.

"Captain Picard, you are correct. Our use of psychic talents was moderately unconscionable, but my primary responsibility is to my company, this ship and its crew. I do apologise that your privacy was violated, but these circumstances are new to us, and I make no apologies for my priorities. I do however, apologise for the failure to reciprocate your courtesy towards us."

The black-armoured man joined his hands, palms together, closed his eyes, and bowed slightly, a gesture laden with genuine sentiment that took the veteran Federation captain more than a little by surprise.

When Haruman's eyes opened and focused on Picard again, they were once more alert, and calculating, the glimpse into the brother-captain's soul so fleeting that Picard wondered whether he'd seen it at all. But Haruman began speaking before Picard had too much of a chance to analyse the gesture.

"Nevertheless, captain, I would like to speak with you. Personally. As such, I, Brother-Captain Edward Haruman, Commander of the 4th Company, 892nd Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, invite you aboard the _Sword of Lycurgas_, and greet you, formally, in the Emperor's name, for the High Lords of Terra, and on behalf of the Human Imperium."

An arctic chill moved down Picard's spine. The bridge crew was frozen, eyes fixed to the viewscreen. Haruman's welcoming, if serious smile, midnight black armour, the iconography of the ship itself, nomenclature of both the ship the heirachy behind it, and now, at long last, the name of the state the ship served. All served, in that single, catastrophic moment, to slide everything into perspective.

Brother-Captain Haruman had, entirely unwittingly, just manifested the worst nightmare of every human being. Everything from all the worst parts of human history, rolled into one. The Human Imperium. Empire of Humanity. Embodiment of everything the Federation strove to avoid. An aggressive, expansionist, militant, religious, technically advanced unitary state, with the resources to build warships dwarfing anything the Federation could conceive. The true power, or otherwise, of this "Human Imperium" was yet to be revealed, but if the _Sword of Lycurgas_ was anything to go by, the Federation could be in for a terrible, terrible shock. As for the Romulans, well, one didn't have to be a telepath to imagine their reaction to Haruman's words.

The silence was not missed, nor was it mistaken for anything other than hesitation. Picard responded quickly, but was more shaken than he let on. His response was loud, and clear, and calculated to leave no trace of doubt in the minds of his

"Then, on behalf on Starfleet, and the United Federation of Planets, I accept your invitation. Would it be acceptable to bring some of my senior officers, as per our first contact protocol?"

"But of course, Captain. You will all be received with due ceremony, as a plenipotentiary of your people, and are entitled to an entourage, as you desire. We will receive you as soon as you are ready."

"Brother-Captain, while not wanting to sully this first contact, I would like to highlight that we are not the only interstellar state represented here. The _Minnkash'maen_ is entitled to similar treatment, as a warship of the Romulan Star Empire."

The smile left Haruman's eyes, though not his lips.

"Ah, of course. All respect and courtesy will be shown to the xeno warship. We shall contact their vessel in due course. I'm sure we will have much to discuss. But first, I would like to speak with you, personally, if at all possible. And quickly, Captain. It _is_ a matter of some urgency."

That got through to the Federation senior officer. Not so much the words. Bureaucrats frequently called things "urgent" because they didn't want to have to wait for them. But because of the emphasis the man placed on things. His sense of forceful purpose, which seemed to Picard to almost be carefully concealing something of import, and not of positive import. He pondered briefly whether the Cardassians or Dominion had anything to do with it, but swiftly dismissed them. The Cardassians were more than just a spent force. They were literally starving. And the Dominion was by turns exhausted, short of Jem-Hadar, and grateful for Federation efforts in saving their gods from unpleasant death. No, not that, but Haruman seemed to want to discuss the matter, so Picard knew that the information would likely be forthcoming.

"Very well, Brother-Captain. If you would allow us thirty minutes to prepare a diplomatic party, we will beam over."

The _Sword_'s commander looked confused.

"Beam over, captain?"

"Teleport, brother-captain. If you allow us thirty minutes, we will teleport a diplomatic party aboard your vessel, to co-ordinates specified by you."

"Teleport, captain? Surely that is dangerous in space. The slightest miscalculation could have… unpleasant consequences."

Picard raised an eyebrow. Perhaps the _Sword_ didn't have particularly good transporters. A fact to remember for the future. But he continued.

"Thank you for your concern, Brother-Captain, but our teleportation technology is accurate, and contains many safety features to present materialising within a bulkhead, or some-such."

The Brother-Captain did not react, but nodded in acknowledgment.

"As you wish, Captain. Notify us when you are prepared. Haruman out."

Wheels within wheels and a situation that had the commander of the largest combat vessel in the galaxy concerned.

Temperatures aboard a Federation vessel were hot to an Andorian. Cold for a Vulcan. Moderately cool to a Betazoid. A tad warm to a Trill. But the temperature had absolutely nothing to do with the chill that Picard felt in his gut.

"Thoughts, number one?"

Commander Yee was fresh as a commander, but had a keen eye for detail. His input was usually worthwhile.

"The _Sword of Lycurgas_ is a powerful ship, sir. That its captain is so worried bodes ill."

The ice in his gut turned still colder.

Admiral Janeway was a near legend in the Federation. Well known within Starfleet's upper echelons for some time, by virtue of her mentor, Admiral Paris, but otherwise just a young captain of the fleet, like many others.

All that changed when the USS _Voyager_ was catapulted to the furthest reaches of the Delta Quadrant, in company of the Maquis raider it was pursuing. The _Voyager_'s epic seven-year return journey was nearly unbelievable, and the trials overcome staggering. She had won the respect of her starfleet officers, and, more surprisingly, the Maquis that had joined her crew upon their stranding. The first contacts made, and enemies overcome or avoided were remarkably to the credit of the entire crew, and had elevated Janeway to the admiralty, one of the youngest admirals in the Federation's history, as well as one of the most determined, and one of those least likely to be indecisive in the face of adversity.

But, on her watch, two serious crises had arisen.

The arrival of the _Sword of Lycurgas_. That monstrosity of a ship had given everyone headaches. A warship, as it had turned out to be, of that size, sitting right in the middle of one of the most sensitive areas of space in the quadrant. Full of humans. Not Federation citizens. Humans. Not that anyone else would care that the humans were non-Federation. A constant thorn for starfleet. Human "neutrals" who had either never possessed, or renounced their citizenship were not under Federation control or authority. But other states, save the Klingons to some extent, failed to see the difference, and held the _Federation_ responsible for actionscarried out by _neutrals_.

The Romulans, fortunately, were much more amenable after the recent co-operation. For a change, the neutrals themselves were the question. Janeway trusted Captain Picard's skills implicitly… but there was a certain sense of security, and familiarity, that came with knowing that the Romulans were planning something. Now Starfleet genuinely didn't know, and could no longer simply assume the worst.

But there was more than the _Sword of Lycurgas_ to worry about.

Ben Sisko's deal with the Bajoran Prophets had won the Federation the Dominion War. A huge fleet of Jem-Hadar warships, a Founder at their head, was lost in the wormhole. A fleet numbering in the thousands, the grand armada that would have subjugated the alpha and beta quadrants. The whole fleet had simply vanished. Displaced in time.

Starfleet had cheered, and counted it as "scratch one Dominion Armada".

But the entities did not destroy the Dominion forces. They had only displaced them chronologically.

Bajor had contacted Starfleet, and given disturbing news. A number of Vedeks had received disturbing dreams and portents. While Janeway rarely put much stock in superstition, after reading the reports of the Dominion War, she approached metaphysical comments by the Bajorans with far more candour than she would once have.

And they were all the same. Images of the Emissary giving warnings about the return. And that Jem-Hadar fleet was what Starfleet had most cause to be worried. So, in a move that was bound to attract negative attention, whatever the result, Janeway had ordered a sizeable build-up of forces at Deep Space 9. Four _Sovereign_ class ships, twelve of _Galaxy_ class, sixteen _Akira _and a whole host of smaller ships were added to the small Federation fleet operating out of the station. Deep Space 9 would, in six days time, boast the most powerful defences of any station owned or operated by the Federation.

But it would not be enough, and Janeway knew it. That fleet had been planned to sweep aside the combined defences of the Federation, Klingons and Romulans. A weakened Federation, on its own, would not hold it for long. But each extra hour Starfleet managed to delay the Jem-Hadar fleet was an extra hour to either evacuate nearby systems, or try to bring in reinforcements from the Romulans or Klingons… even the Cardassians, if they actually had _anything_. Help from _anyone_ would suffice.

Unfortunately, no one in their right minds would agree to send a fleet to the other side of the quadrant because a foreign admiral believed that some prophets spoke to some priests in their dreams.

And Janeway didn't believe that she would ever have desperately hoped for a Cardassian or Romulan fleet to appear at Deep Space 9.

They might be lucky, and just agree that the war was over, turn back around, and head to the Gamma quadrant.

But the Admiral doubted it.

It was proving to be an unpleasantly busy week.


	15. Chapter 15

Sorry for the delay. I destroyed my car. It and I had a fight with a wall. The wall came out on top. I am fine, the car isn't. With a bit of luck, it'll be written off, and I can get a nice fat lump sum pay-off.

JibletNation: Yes, the differences between the WH40k universe and the very utopian Federation are part of what makes this story interesting to write. And read, or so I would hope.

Huh: The Sword of Lycurgas is a fully-equipped battlebarge, perhaps a fraction short of space-superiority units as a trade-off for greater atmospheric capability. During the battles around Cadia, the Imperial Navy would have handled most of the space superiority work, and the marines would have used their vessels to support their efforts on the surface. And as for the difference in used and potential capabilities of a battlebarge… pass. I have no knowledge of the additional capabilities, so I can't realistically describe them. I'll take them as is. Not that it's exceptionally important to the plot either way. Well spotted, though.

Grayangle: Thank you once more for your support, in these dark times. Faith is indeed our beacon in these dark times, and the light with which to drive away the darkness.

Lennox: Good to see the plot-line is coming together in the eyes of the readers… there is one… trust me… even if it is a little vague at the moment. I was never a big fan of the "mindless killing machines" version of marines… mindless soldiers are dead soldiers, and marines are too long-lived for that to be the case.

Entilza: As the 'other' writer in this genre, thank you for your compliment. It is greatly appreciated…

Smithklein: Your analysis is pretty close to the mark, as it was last time. There are some points of both genres I am stretching slightly for the purposes of congruence… and the inter-relationship between the genres is ever-interesting. The Federation is feeling somewhat sickened, and a little intimidated, while the Astartes are feeling a little bewildered… and the Bajoran Prophets make an easy chrono-alteration device for any crossover plot…

AureliusBarzano: Triumph of the Will. Magnificent piece of film, even if the subject matter, in retrospect, is frightening to everyone else. And nicely guessed. Sometimes I think you all have a modem plugged into my under-worked brain. There will be some parts very like that. But I shan't give the progress away. And we will see the warriors of the Emperor fight. And there will enough blood to satisfy the most… discerning… of palates.

GanjaFarmer: Thank you as well. Positivity is always encouraging, although I hasten to add that I have quite a bit of this to go yet…

VexedDuck: I will update as soon as I can. Like… now chuckle…

Right now, in fact…

"Nadgazad System Control, this is strike cruiser _Leonidas_ registering arrival, and requesting docking clearance, over."

After a hectic dash at top speed through the warp, the _Leonidas_ had arrived at the outskirts of the Nadgazad system, centre of the Dark Templar Occupation Zone. While relatively newly returned to mainstream service to the Emperor, the Dark Templars, together with Deathbringer support, had secured a sector of the Imperium's central south as territory, which they ran surprisingly effectively given nearly eight thousand years of isolation.

"_Leonidas_, this is Nadgazad System Control. Please transmit travel authentication code, over."

Nadgazad was only a dozen-or-so light years from the Maelstrom, and they were understandably touchy about incoming traffic.

"Standby, control."

One of the bondsman-officers on the bridge spoke next.

"Sir, sensors are registering weapons lock from seven separate weapons emplacements."

The bondsman-captain nodded. "Standby" was the classic stalling manoeuvre, and, from their perspective, the unknown strike cruiser WAS getting closer.

Another officer reported.

"Sir, emplacements have raised shields. Their sensors are interrogating our systems."

"Acknowledged. Bondsman-Lieutenant, what is the current authentication code."

"Displaying on your panel now, sir."

He looked down, and saw the string of digits on his panel that would stop his cruiser from being pummelled into a million itty-bitty pieces.

"Nadgazad control, this is _Leonidas_. Prepare to receive, over."

"Nadgazad, ready, over."

"Authentication code X-ray, x-ray, one, niner, niner, niner, four, zulu, yankee, seven, niner, delta."

"This is Nadgazad Control, _Leonidas_, authentication code confirmed. You are cleared for docking. Make your way to Bay 25, Station 6. Ensure your void shields are down, and your weapons unpowered, over."

"_Leonidas_ copies. Proceeding as directed."

A barely perceptible release of tension was felt on the bridge. The "not going to be obliterated, just yet" thing was a superb release of tension.

The sleek Deathbringer cruiser cut its way through space towards the heart of the Dark Templar empire, sliding past orbital and system defences that would ward off all but the most potent and determined of aggressors. Multiple manned starbases ringed the core worlds, while sentry drones, mobile and emplaced, held the outer edges of the system. The defences, formidable as they were, were familiar to the Deathbringers. Many were gifts from them, a means for the Dark Templars to re-establish themselves after their long isolation.

Messages were flitting across the system, as several Dark Templar warships formed up for a warp jump. Lysander watched as their warp engines shone a blinding blue, then pulsed and the ships blurred off into the distance before winking out of sight. A super-heavy cargo transport slid past the strike cruiser, the seven-kilometre long warship a dolphin alongside a supertanker.

The starbases were Imperial Navy in design, gargantuan monoliths hanging in space, bastions of armour and firepower, the "Pax Imperialis" given form.

Lysander chuckled to himself. "Pax Imperialis". What a joke. Maybe for some. Earth hadn't been attacked in ten thousand years. Bakka was all but impregnable, so no one bothered. Cypra Mundi. Ophelia. Ryza, for some bizarre reason. But for the rest of the Imperium, peace was very much a relative thing, even if they were not under attack. Hive worlds, phenomenal masses of people that they were, held the Imperium together by weight of men and materiel. Forge Worlds kept the Guard and Fleet fighting, with the staggering volume of equipment they produced. And when everything went from hell to breakfast anywhere, the space marines were on call to sort it out.

And it was still a near run thing. Lysander had never taken part in an exterminatus. But he'd seen the aftermath of one. Delden VI, along the northern edge of the galactic centre, a planet that he had fought on on several separate occasions. It had been a beautiful, bountiful planet, and well urbanised without being the nightmare conurbation that places like Mordia, Necromunda or Ichar were. Lysander's company were despatched to both augment Imperial defences, and roll back the Tyranid tide by systematic destruction of specific synapse nodes.

But the ship that they were travelling on, the strike cruiser _Xiphos_ had been held up by a Tyranid sub-fleet two systems out, and it had taken them four hours of running battles to destroy it.

By the time the _Xiphos_ fought its way into orbit of Delden VI, the Imperial Navy and Hive Fleet subdivision "Scylla" were slugging it out mercilessly, locked in a geostationary stalemate. On the ground, the situation was desperate. Too desperate. The Deathbringers were late. The Imperial Navy turned its guns on the planet.

The surface of Delden VI was reduced to cinders in minutes. Few truly appreciated the firepower of the Imperial Navy. With the destruction of the majority of the life on the planet, 'Scylla' withdrew. It had nothing to fight for. But there were still survivors below, and still Tyranid units to subdue and study. Any edge that the techno-magi could develop against the Tyranids was sorely needed.

Lysander spent five days fighting crazed hormagaunts in one of the battered hives that had been closest to the front. Well, that wasn't true. It WAS the front.

He'd heard a scream, and knew it wasn't one of his men. Marines rarely screamed. And it was too high pitched. Lysander had lead a couple of squads to the screams location, and driven off several dozen 'gaunts that had started fighting amongst themselves.

Lysander's intestines went cold as the credit-coin dropped. He sprinted for the ground where the Tyranids had squabbled. Just in time to watch a girl, pretty young thing, no more than eight or nine, gurgle and splutter her way to death around a torn throat, her bright blood staining the ground where her left leg and right arm should have been. A chew toy between three of the things, the winner being the creature holding the limb that stayed attached to the torso longest. The girl was mutilated, a dented lasgun and several dead 'gaunts testifying to the ferocity of her struggle.

But it was too much. And as Lysander saw that brave young girl's eyes glaze over, then stare lifelessly at the iron grey surface of the Hive, he lost it.

He kept himself together long enough to order his marines to leave him, a terse, sharp order that none questioned in words, his battle-brothers knowing without speaking the turmoil in his mind. They melted away, like so many black-armoured wraiths, sliding into the shadows. His brothers had never looked so surreal, before or since.

He then sat down on a rock, next to the corpse, and wept. He wept for the beautiful, nameless little girl, mauled and eaten alive amongst the wreckage and rubble of a world that he was too late to save. He wept for Delden VI, the Imperium, and for humanity, forced by callous necessity of brutal circumstance into the wholesale slaughter of its people. And he wept for himself, and the slow death of his innocence in the face of the horrors of a galaxy he had sworn to protect.

But as the battered, scratched, scorched, underfed and torn corpse lying next to him made gave testimony, that protection wasn't always enough. And Lysander thought at the time, and even since, in his darker moment, that that brave, brave, girl served far more fitting a representation of the Imperium than was comfortable. A courageous, doomed child, flitting about amidst the wreckage of empire.

He didn't move for three hours. The culmination of hundreds of years of combat finally breaking his will. Didn't move, until the unceasing attempts of the Imperial Navy commander in the area to contact him finally made him key open his comm-net channel, and resume his duty. Delden VI was cleared of tyranids, and repopulated as a mining colony, where its population would toil ceaselessly to scrape out a living from the ore-rich scraps of their precurssors.

But 22 billion people had died on Delden VI that day. And Richard Lysander was never the same man again.

When the deck beneath his feet shuddered, Lysander was roused from his reverie. The _Leonidas_ had docked at one of the stations. The man realised he didn't know which, not that it mattered. The Dark Templars were the Deathbringers' closest allies, and would be as welcoming as marines could be.

One of the bondsman-lieutenants spoke to the bondsman-captain.

"Mooring sequence completed, sir".

"Thank you, bondsman-lieutenant. Brother-Captain, we have arrived at Nadgazad, as you have directed."

Lysander stood, a full head taller than the already large bondsman-captain on his right, and spoke over the broadcast comm.

"This is Brother-Captain Lysander, Deathbringers 2nd Company. I request permission to speak with senior brothers of the…"

"Richard, is that you?"

Now that as a familiar voice to Lysander. Brother-Centurion Revinius, Dark Templar 3rd. The two companies had fought alongside each other at Beta Mithrax. The _Leonidas_' guns, arriving on target from low orbit, had prevented both companies from being overwhelmed by multiple battalion-sized mobs of orks. The two company commanders had formed a firm friendship over the course of the campaign, saving each other's lives, and sharing a drink more than once.

Revinius had saved his first. A platoon of traitor marines had ambushed the squad Lysander was leading through the underhive of Mithrandear, the planet's capital city. His squad had gone to ground, an unusual response for marines, but one which reduced their opening casualties to only one wounded. Unfortunately, the charge of a squad of possessed marines broke the brief lull, and Lysander found himself fighting with power sword and plasma pistol in a melee more brutal than any he'd fought in centuries. He parried two scythed tentacles one after another then shot the monstrosity in the stomach, plasma pistol blazing a hole right through the things armour. The brief flinch it caused was enough, and the brother-captain's power-sword was brought crashing down from right collarbone to left hip, nearly shearing the blasphemous creature in half.

Minutes passed in an orgy of blood. Blackened, tainted, soiled blood, for the most part. Three more of his men went down, although his HUD showed them still alive. His plasma pistol fired again, striking an enemy full in the face, and disintegrating his head above the jaw. His slow forward fall forced Lysander to the side, just in time to receive a ringing blow to his left temple. His vision swam, just enough that the power-armoured boot that struck his chest sent him reeling backwards, landing arse first on a pile of rubble. He watched, horrified, as the thing's chain-axe came up, held in its right hand, just in time to fall sideways as Brother-Centurion Revinius' storm shield intercepted the downswing. The brother-centurion's heavily customised powersword came swinging in right behind the shield, and took the arm clean off at the elbow, a fitting greeting from the arriving Dark Templar 3rd Company. Four squads had arrived in rhinos, far, far, far faster than they had any right to. Revinius had infused his company with a sense of urgency. Lysander owed him 40 credits and a case of bloodwine.

Two months later, Lysander won them back. He dragged the barely conscious Revinius out from under a dead squiggoth, onto the last leaving Thunderhawk during the chaotic final battles during the evacuation of Eightway Base. The Leonidas' guns, cleared the last of the infestation that the three companies had unearthed, then scoured the planet's surface, just to make certain.

Lysander was glad to hear of the Brother-Centurion's presence on Nadgazad now.  
"Brother-Centurion Revinius. Well met. Emperor's teeth, how are you?"

"I'm doing well, Richard. Thanks in no small part to you fine folks over on Lycurgas. But I'm wagering you didn't run all the way down here to talk about the progress of development on Nadgazad."

Lysander smiled, in spite of the situation.

"You are right, brother. There's more, all right. Mind if I come on over?"

"'Course. I'm on the bridge, come on up."

The audio link beeped closed, and Lysander stood. Brother-Centurion Revinius. Who would have thought it…?

Revinius was puzzled. The Deathbringers were well established in the Imperium. They had their own multi-system empire to the galactic north. They had fleets. An industrial base. Marines. Even entire Emperor-be-damned regiments of Lycurgan PDF troops. So, while Revinius liked Lysander, and had a remarkable soft spot for that damned fine ship that he rode in on, it was puzzling why the Deathbringers would seek out their assistance.

Puzzling, and slightly worrying. The Deathbringers had been instrumental in helping the Dark Templar get up to speed with the present day Imperium. Had even threatened to fight if the Inquisition pressed forward with its demands for exterminatus of the pre-heresy marines. The Inquisition had argued that their minds had been tainted by past proximity to traitor marines.

The Deathbringers had been the first to stand by the Dark Templars. A staggering move on the part of Master Ragarik. And very dangerous.

But the Deathbringers had a reputation for generosity that had won them allies, and the Blood Scorpions Chapter had quickly indicated their support. Three chapters.

The Death Adders, grateful for the _Leonidas_' assistance in saving their damaged strike cruiser _Taipan_ from a White Hellion ship, also threw their lot in.

The Inquisition backed down. It was only a line of thought, they'd said, brought up by one of their more cautious factions. But all four chapters had watched their backs and each other's, very carefully ever since.

Which nicely brought Revinius back to the question that was bothering him. What could Lysander, and by extension, the Deathbringers, want, that they couldn't acquire themselves? They were, by a moderately significant margin, the best equipped and best supported of the four chapters.

So how in blazes did they expect the Dark Templars to provide it –whatever 'it' was- if they couldn't?

Lysander walked in several minutes later. He shook Revinius' hand, the warmth there even through both officers' gauntlets. But that was where the pleasant sentiment stopped.

Lysander had aged. He looked tired in a way that Revinius hadn't seen him looking before. While still young for a marine brother-captain, the man looked worried. It was a mark of their friendship that Revinius even saw that.

"What's happening, Richard? What has got you looking like you've just done three rounds with a carnifex?"

Lysander exhaled, the air whistling through clenched teeth.

"Sometimes I think I'd prefer it if I had."

Revinius' face betrayed his surprise. Whatever it was, it was bad.

"So, what is it? We can't help if we don't know what it is you want."

"Remember on Beta Mithrax, that brother-lieutenant I recommended for the Crux de Humanitate?"

Revinius thought for a moment. It had been a while ago, but the situation that went on in the bowels of the Mithrandear underhive was some of the fiercest fighting that he had been involved in. And he remembered being particularly happy that the White Hellions chapter, which had turned its back on the Imperium and the light of the Emperor, wore white armour. In the dark underhive, it showed up very, very clearly.

Brother-Lieutenants… who had been Lysander's brother-lieutenants… oh, that one…

"Ed Haruman? Yeah, I remember him. What about him?"

"He, along with the entire 4th Company, twelve thousand bondsmen, and one of our battlebarges, has been lost."

It wasn't often that Revinius was lost for words.

But, he was indeed very lost for words at that moment. It was a long moment before he responded.

"I see. You, and your chapter, have our sincerest condolences".

Revinius meant it. A battlebarge was a damn big investment. The Dark Templars only had one. And losing the _Eternal Crusade_ would have been a terrible blow to the fledgling Dark Templar Fleet. To say nothing of the whole 4th Company. The loss of gene-stock would have been a catastrophe, affecting recruitment and reinforcement levels for many decades to come. An entire company's progenoids lost. In totality. Ouch.

Lysander nodded his thanks, before continuing.

"Thank you, brother, but there's more to it. I mean lost as in 'we don't know where they are', not necessarily lost as in dead. Although, of course, we don't know for sure either way."

"Well. Thank the Emperor for what comfort he gives".

"Perhaps. But hope is the first step on the road to disappointment, and all that".

Revinius nodded curtly.

"True. But how can we help you?"

Lysander looked at the man squarely.

"One of your ships was the last vessel to rendezvous with it, and would have been nearby when it sent its last known communication. We would like to contact it, and check its logs for the astrotelepathic inbound receipts, then cross-reference them with data picked up from Lycurgas".

Revinius gave a low whistle. Emperor-on-high, the triangulation over that distance would have a phenomenal margin for error.

"You know that that's a long shot, brother?"

The Deathbringer sighed. It was, and he knew it.

"Would you rather that we wrote off a battlebarge, and the 4th Company?"

Revinius grimaced.

"Touche. Do your records say which of our ships it was?"

"No, unfortunately, but we know it was a strike cruiser…"

"Doesn't matter. We can check our records. The bondsmen will have them somewhere".

"Glad to hear it."

Revinius leant over, and pressed a button on his desk. A short stream of orders followed, then it clicked off.

The two men stared at each other. What else? Revinius spoke next.

"Drink?"

It was a number of hours before the records came up with anything solid. But they did. By that point, the two marine officers had each drunk enough wine to kill ordinary men several times over. They were both slightly buzzing.

"We found your signal, Richard. And the ship that heard it. The _Gladius_, one of our newer ones, carrying the 5th Cohort."

"Good to hear, brother. Let's go check its logs."

Lysander stood. Revinius didn't. Lysander looked at him quizzically.

"Richard, there is a slight problem with that."

Lysander's right eyebrow started its ascent towards his hairline.

"What?"

"The _Gladius_ isn't here."

"Where is it?"

Revinius looked down briefly, before raising his head again and answering.

"Should be just about at Ichar IV, by now…"

Lysander sat back down. The silence stretched for ten minutes, before he spoke.

"Well. I guess I'm off to the Eastern Fringe, then."

Revinius' smile was almost predatory.

"Not you, brother. We are."

Lysander looked at him a fraction disbelieving until the man extended his armoured right arm, elbow just above the desk's surface. No words were exchanged as the Deathbringer brother-captain grasped his comrade's gauntlet with his.

When Lysander walked back onto the _Leonidas_, he did so looking charged once again.

"Bondsman-Captain, set a course for Ichar IV. Make best time, and don't spare the drives."

"Aye, sir."

A flurry of orders and reports flowed across the bridge as the vessel broke away from the station, its giant engines glowing dimly as they powered up. A bondsman-lieutenant spoke up next, breaking the flow of instructions from the ship's command chair.

"Incoming message, sirs".

The brother-captain acknowledged it.

"Put it on screen".

The starfield was cut off by the imposing visage of the brother-centurion.

"It almost feels like old times, doesn't it Richard?"

Lysander chuckled. Almost but not quite. Almost.

"Close. Close, brother. See you at Ichar."

"Emperor be with you."

"You to."

The connection closed, blackness once more covering the screen.

"Sirs, the _Triarius _is taking up station on our aft port quarter."

Lysander nodded. He'd expected as such.

"Our allies have decided to follow us in. Who are we to deny our allies the pleasure of our company?"

A number of the personnel on the bridge laughed at that. It was definitely nice to have another ship along. And who better than the Dark Templars.

"Nadgazad control send their best wishes, sirs."

"Thank you, bondsman-lieutenant. To Ichar, gentlemen, and Emperor-damned be any that hold our passage."


	16. Look upon my works, ye mighty

Once again all, sorry for the delay. I've been on two weeks leave, in sunny Gibraltar. Feet up, having my cousins point out other cousins until the phrase "that's your cousin whoever" really starts to lose its impact. Food was ok, but in far too great a quantity.   
Grayangle: Bloodwine. Great stuff. Two parts blood to one part wine. Heat to moderately above room temperature… And note, DARK Templars. Not Black Templars. I borrowed a marine chapter from a friend of mine… very Roman-esque. 

aureliusbarzano: History is wonderful. It can be relied on to repeat itself on a remarkably regular basis, at least in generalities. People will not listen to the "lessons" of history… but then you can't… because in the specifics lie the differences that will either recreate the situation or render it completely different. A frustrating paradox. And amen to the champions of humanity argument. Marines are not infantrymen. They are the 41st Millennium's equivalent of Special Forces. And from my interaction with Special Forces soldiers, I can tell you that they are ALL very switched on operators.

And yes… that Triumph of the Will. Tell me what you think of this rendition.

Liljimmyurine: Glad you like again. And well picked up on the Exterminatus thing. But there is a part you missed. I said "locked in a geostationary stalemate…" The Imperial Navy couldn't push through to the other side, and the front line on the planet was only partially shelled. The Hive in question was on the line in question.

Psycho-indoctrination is not perfect. It can never be. Marines, by my reckoning, would be far, far, far harder to break than ordinary soldiers (which is true, by canon), but they do break. Just they are less likely to.

Dark Templars are indeed a cursed founding chapter… nicely spotted.

Ganja Farmer: Cheers for the sentiment. Insurance pay out will cover the next car purchase. But rental car costs are slowly eating into my financial security…

Lennox: Glad you like, and here is Picard's reaction, coming right up. It is similar to Klingon bloodwine… in principle, at least.

Sithspawn: Enterprise… right here… Romulans… next chapter. I'm still pondering that…

Huh: Again, well spotted. The poor manoeuvrability of a battle barge would be a hindrance in ship to ship combat. But pointing a broadside or nova cannon at a formation would do very well when it comes to breaking up an opposing battle-line…

Gundamgroupie and Vexed Duck: Yeah… my apologies. Holiday and all slowed my response time…

Enjoy, all.

Picard adjusted his dress uniform. Dress uniform. Damn thing itched even worse than the utilities. And he'd been wearing it more than usual of late, and he'd never liked it. To him, the emphasis was far more on "dress" than on "uniform". But, this was a first contact, of a sort, and they were being suitably formal. 

Commander Yee's voice came over the intercom. 

"Come" Picard said. 

The door to his quarters opened with a low hiss, and his first officer walked in, looking far more comfortable than Picard felt. It was Yee that spoke first. 

"You look far more comfortable in that than I feel, sir." 

Picard chuckled. Maybe there was hope yet. 

"I was actually thinking the same thing of you, number one. Just between the two of us, what do you think of our lost boys over there?" 

Yee could be seen visually weighing his words. His mind was razor sharp, even if he didn't speak it much, and what he said now, when he had Picard's full attention, could have very, very widespread ramifications. 

"Captain, they are very concerning. Although we know exceedingly little about this 'Imperium', the name alone is cause for great care. And, that ship… well…" 

Yee had echoed Picard's sentiments exactly. The ship. Say whatever they wanted about the 'Human Imperium', or 'Brother-Captain' Haruman, or anyone else, but that ship was monstrous. 

And, in a very brief span of time, relatively speaking, him and a number of his senior officers, including Captain Keenan, would be aboard it. Picard was curious. La Forge was almost foaming at the mouth. The man would be keeping an exceptionally close eye on the technology around them, and trying to make a mental note of as much as possible. Picard found himself wishing for Data, whose positronic memory would have been invaluable. That was an unfortunate impossibility. Death had a way of being most inconvenient, as well as painful. 

He pulled on the collar of his uniform, running his index finger along the inside, fighting the damnable itch that always seemed to increase exponentially the more he tried to ignore it. 

He glanced at the wall. Time. 

He turned to Yee, who looked a little pale. Picard knew that the man hadn't been sleeping well. And he suspected that the _Sword of Lycurgas_ was only part of the reason. His commbadge chimed. 

"Bridge to Picard". 

"Picard here, go ahead". 

"Captain Keenan and Commander T'Marid are requesting to beam aboard, sir." 

"Very well. Beam them over to transporter room 2." 

"Yes, sir." 

Picard could at least be happy for the small mercy that was not having hair. One less facet of this situation to worry about. Of course, if he was honest with himself, having his hair back would probably be a good thing, if only because of the illusion that he was not past his prime. 

Now was not the time. Duty was calling. 

He stepped out of his quarters, Commander Yee trailing him. His black on red uniform looked stately, if slightly ridiculous, as his long strides ate up the distance to transporter room 2. The other members of the entourage were already there, as was to be expected. The first of the Federation's official contact with the Imperium. 

Geordi gave him a small smile, the most that was allowed in this formal environment. Picard nodded briefly to him, before shaking the _Intrepid_ captain's hand. 

"Ready to make history?" 

"Always, Jean Luc. To boldly go, and all that…" 

Picard smiled. If nothing else, first contacts were always interesting. 

"Of course. And all that…" 

He turned his attention to the transporter chief. 

"Energise" 

Haruman looked down at his assembled company, and felt immensely proud. A goodly portion of the ship's combatant crew, in their ceremonials, was formed up as well. Rank upon rank of them, thousands strong, filling the cavernous cargo bay of the _Sword_. A path ran through the serried ranks, arrow straight and sixteen paces wide, to where Haruman stood at the end of the bay. His company, their black power armour making them appear more than slightly intimidating, were formed up at the last twenty paces before reaching Haruman, on either side of the walkway. Bortalus stood behind him, and to his right. Hensher behind, and to the left. 

Their guests, from this "Federation" were due to arrive any minute. The chronometers were not entirely aligned. And, truth be told, Haruman didn't mind. Not that he'd admit it, but he liked this part of the job. A brief bit of well-meaning but still awe-inspiring ceremony, and many a planet, or even small empire, had surrendered to the Imperium without a fight. Millions, sometimes billions of lives saved. And, again in spite of the chapter's name, death on a large scale was to be avoided if possible. 

People, manpower… resources. The Emperor had far more use for a productive planet than a non-productive one. And the Deathbringers were particularly good at obtaining productive human planets for the Imperium. 

He glanced back and upwards. A gigantic tarnished golden-bronze double-headed eagle sat above them on the blast doors dividing the cargo hold. The gargoyles high above them, distant silhouettes against the floodlights. The statues of the heroes of the Imperium, and stalwarts from the Chapter's millennia of service to humanity. 

This time, as it happened, their 'guests' would not be there in the capacity of potential subordinates to the Imperium, but as hoped for allies in the _Sword_'s attempt to return to its own time. 

A slight difference, admittedly. 

Hensher was exceptionally uncomfortable. They were about to receive unbelievers into their midst without so much as a word of condemnation. Not one. Logically he knew that there was no other way, and that the Emperor granted His soldiers reason and intellect for a purpose, but the extent to which circumstance was pushing them was uncomfortable. 

Not only were these people unbelievers, but they willingly harboured xenos in their midst. Xenos! He'd dealt with them before, and would do so again, if the Emperor's interests required it, but, Emperor's teeth, he'd prefer not to. They were –literally- subhuman. Why some, such as the Brother-Captain, didn't see it, baffled him. He struggled to see their perspective. He was sure it was sensible, and reasoned, but it must have ascribed to a wholly different set of reason to what he did. 

That was possible. His faith didn't blind him. It sharpened his focus, strengthened his will, and allowed him to strengthen the will of his fellows. 

And he was frequently guilty of the sin of pride. Pride in himself, worst of all, but also, especially, in his battle-brothers. Strong of arm, and even stronger of heart. They would not, for the most part, know of the extent of the _Sword_'s predicament, but they would accept it, and deal with it, as they always did. 

More credit to them. And him, by extension. 

He could bring the light of the Emperor to this time. Prepare for his coming. Establish the groundwork that would… 

But no. He could not. Despite every fibre of his being telling him, no, screaming at him, to do so, that course of action would destroy the integrity of the timeline. 

So he would stand there, like a piece of ceremonial armour, and await the arrival of xenos and heretics. 

At least no one could see his scowl behind his battle-mask. 

But Bortalus could feel it, and fought to suppress a grin. Hensherr was giving off anger-frustration waves so hard it was palpable. He wouldn't have been surprised if Haruman, non-psyker though the brother-captain was, was able to pick up on the Chaplain's mood. It was positively toxic. 

And well it should be. It was, after all, a chaplain's job to be vigilant for the spiritual and emotional armour of the company. 

Didn't mean he could find his discomfort strangely amusing though. 

The librarian's mindsight flared. He felt the fabric of the warp buckling, and saw the power flare where the _Enterprise_ hung in the void. 

"Incoming teleports, brother-captain." 

"Thank you, brother." 

Blue lights began to flicker at the end of the assembled multitudes. Five. As had been agreed. As the flickering lights approached something approaching solidity, the brother-captain's voice rang through the _Sword_'s cargo hold. 

"Bondsmen and brothers of the Deathbringer Warship, _Sword of Lycurgas_, present-" 

The figures stopped their fluorescing, and a slight twitch of the dark-skinned man, nearly two hundred metres away, gave away the totality of their presence on the ship. 

"-arms!" 

"-arms!" 

As one, thousands upon thousands of dark-grey-clad soldiers raised their right foot, and slammed them down into the metal deck. The movement sounded like a thunderclap in the cavernous… whatever this space was, and the echoing rumble of its passing ominous, like the shadow of a giant, and a harbinger of the power that was manifesting, as of yet, only in the imagination. 

Picard told himself that the chill running down his spine was due to the couple of degrees of temperature difference between the _Enterprise_ and the cargo bay of the _Sword_. 

Arrayed to either side of the small group of Federation officers were seemingly endless ranks of soldiery, rifles of some description held to the ir front in a parade-ground elegant greeting. A path lead through the middle, off towards the gigantic gleaming double-headed eagle emblazoned on the wall ahead. 

Geordi's reaction was by far the most succinct, Picard thought, with his low whistle summing up the little group's sentiments. 

"Looks like they want us to walk, gentlemen." 

They started walking, Picard inwardly acknowledging that the blatant attempt at intimidation was working. There was something daunting, something visceral and dramatic about it, that awoke something akin to a racial memory in every one of the four humans making the walk towards the black-armoured figures in the distance. 

The presence of the large number of obviously armed men was oppressive, and stifled any conversation within the Federation ranks. 

For the last dozen or so metres, the ranks of nameless grey-clad soldiers gave way to huge, black-armoured versions of the same, seven to eight foot, stony visaged and hard eyed. Picard took as much in as he could without looking directly at them, nor moving his eyes. He could feel the gaze of thousands upon him, and as he approached the brother-captain standing in front of him, now looking far taller, wider and more imposing than he had on the viewscreen of the _Enterprise._ In fact, more than that. Up close, he was huge. 

The man's steely-blue eyes were the same, and his dark brown hair was likewise unchanged, but Picard realised for the first time that the man was far older than he appeared. Picard was not superstitious, but if anyone could be said to have an "old soul", then Haruman was a fair way up on the list. And it was that old soul that made the first move, his gauntleted right fist brought up against the left side of the armoured chest in an obviously salutary gesture, before offering his hand to the Federation Captain. 

"In the Emperor's name, welcome, Captain Picard." 

The voice was not loud, but forceful and resonant. Picard moved forward again, and took the man's hand in his own, shaking it. The familiarity of the gesture was more chilling than comforting. 

"On behalf of the Federation, thank you, Brother-Captain. This is Captain Keenan, commanding officer of the USS _Intrepid_, and his first officer, Commander T'Marid. This is my first officer, Commander Yee, and chief engineer, Lieutenant Commander La Forge." 

The indicated officers stepped forward one at a time, and did likewise, before Haruman responded. 

"These are my senior brothers, Chaplain Hensherr, and Brother-Librarian Bortalus." 

The Federation officers turned, almost in stereo, at the Brother-Captain's words. The glance at the chaplain lasted longer, with the eyes lingering on the less-than-stylised skull visage on the chaplain's battle-mask. The "librarian" gave a curt nod, the "chaplain" didn't move. Not for the first time, Picard wondered at the intentions of his hosts. Chaplain. Priest-figure. Man-of-the-cloth. 

Human religious persons wearing skull-masks. Another uncomfortable reminder of some very dark periods of human history. 

"Brother-Captain, I hope our navigational information was of use to you." The statement was almost a question. 

"It certainly has been, Captain. We have re-orientated ourselves satisfactorily, thanks to that information. The crew of this ship, and the Imperium at large, owe you a debt of honour." 

There was no disguising the hesitation that the word "Imperium" brought about. Nor was there any disguising the reaction that that hesitation generated in the Brother-Captain and Librarian. 

"But come now, Captain. You and your crew are welcome aboard this vessel, and, if you have no objection, we'd like to get down to the business we have. It will interest you. Greatly." 

Picard raised an eyebrow, and glanced at Keenan. Keenan shrugged imperceptibly. That was why the Federation officers were on board the _Sword of Lycurgas_ after all. 

"Of course, Brother-Captain. And we thank you for the chance to examine this extraordinary vessel." 

Five black armoured figures on Haruman's left took one pace forward, then executed a right turn, and formed a 'V', backs to the Federation party and their company commander. The brother-captain spoke again, once the sound of their armoured feet had stopped echoing around the walls. 

"Glad to hear it, Captain. Now you can see some more of it, on the way to my ready room." He turned and began walking, with the five-man formation of marines moving off ahead of him. 

The Federation officers began to move off, following as Picard continued to engage the senior Imperial officer in conversation. But not before noticing the second five-man unit of black-armoured soldiers moving in behind them. As they passed through an access door, and out of the enormous hold that had served as a reception hall, T'Marid heard a voice from the parade ground. One which Haruman would have identified as Brother-Sergeant Shenyavin. His voice, diminishing into the distance as it was, could still be distantly heard, a small, ringing order. 

"Bondsmen and Brothers of the _Sword of Lycurgas_, to your duties, fall – OUT." 

The next sound to come out of the _Sword_'s cargo hold was another colossal thunder crack, as several thousand booted feet impacted with the metal of the ship's deck, before dispersing. 

Picard spoke again, as the Federation and marine officers made their way towards Haruman's ready room. 

"I am finding myself very curious. Your ship is not like any other I've encountered before." 

Haruman laughed. Obviously and outwardly. No concealment attempt made at all. Picard raised his eyebrow as he walked beside him, the effect less impressive on the eight-foot marine officer than it was on most people. 

"No, Captain Picard, I think it unlikely indeed that you would have ever encountered a ship like this, before." 

As they walked through what seemed like miles of passages, Picard went from alternately overawed to appalled, and back, on a regular basis. 

The _Sword of Lycurgas_ was vast, as the scans had told them, and had some very obscure technology encased within its hull. If he read some of the display screens they passed correctly, the output of some of the – equipment – on the ship was astronomical. 

But some parts of the _Sword_'s make up sickened him to the core. The crew quarters they passed were abominable. In some parts they stank. The lighting was bad. The climate control was shot to pieces. Picard wasn't sure whether it was a result of battle damage, or part of the ship's construction. He wouldn't have placed any money either way. 

A quarter of grey clad personnel, rifles of some sort slung at their sides, parted for them, and braced up, allowing the small group to pass between them, before flowing back together and continuing. 

The party reached what looked like a turbo lift, but opened to a platform of some 15 metres in diameter. The escort filtered in behind the Federation officers, looking for all the world like a collection of midnight black golems. But he had no doubt that the weapons they carried were not loaded with blanks. 

Loaded. He looked at the weapons again, attempting to do so discretely. They were large, and held big, prominent magazines, visibly loaded with large calibre ammunition. Projectile weapons. Interesting. Not many races utilised projectile weapons any more. Odd that this group chose to, when they obviously had the capacity to use energy-based weaponry if they so chose. 

But the thought wasn't really relevant, and as the lift stopped, and the officers moved into the corridor and off to the door to the clearly marked ready room, Picard thought that this might just be one of the more interesting first contacts he had participated in… 


	17. Double aquilae, temple of the stars

Presently I am blessed with the privacy to write, and thus have been able to cough up this chapter faster than usual. Be happy. Or sad, if you are on of those that think I shouldn't be writing. Although why you would be reading this, in that instance, is a matter of some debate. 

Speaking of debate, if anyone has any ideas, thoughts or suggestions, feel free to let me know. Although there is a general direction to this, it is only general. I am open to changes.

At this juncture I would usually volunteer some other witty, pithy or otherwise humorous aside, prior to responding to your ('your', as in 'my readers', the responses to this story being appreciated as they are) reviews. However instead, I will bend my head, and thank the Lord that the calamity that happened in New Orleans did not happen in my backyard.

Thousands have died. More than a million displaced. A tragedy like this bringing out the best and the worst in a species for which the best and worst are highly divergent.

So, as you read this, take a second or two to be thankful. Get yourself a cup or glass, fill it with a drink. Any drink (as I am at work, as I write this, it will be tea in my case). Then, with your cup or glass charged, give a toast, if only so that you can hear it.

Ladies and gentlemen.

To the fallen.

Now, as you all read of my take on a disastrously unpleasant view of the future, be thankful for what is.

And, perhaps more so in light of recent events, be thankful for what _isn't_.

Liljimmyurine:Yes, Hensher is a fanatic, as most religious authority figures are to some extent or other. But his faith cuts both ways. If he destroys the timeline, he destroys the ascendancy of his God. He doesn't want that. He does have a brain on his shoulders, just it tends to prioritise differently to most. And I will update as much as I am able.

Mountain King:The Federation will more than likely not see the need that generated the existence of the Imperium. The Federation exists 38,000 years into the future, and owes its existence to values of peace and co-operation. The Imperium, the opposite. But then… they may have to learn to ignore their differences, and right quick…

GanjaFarmer:One thing the Imperium CAN do is intimidate. But then, when your warships are eighteen kilometres long… And thank you for the inherent compliment that your expressed relief conveys. It is much appreciated.

Smithklein:I never understood how marines could operate across a planet with only a thousand men, save for raiding missions, search and destroy, etc. They would NEED line infantry. And the background fluff allowed for it… as it allows for a great deal of artistic and creative license with marine chapters. And yes, big guns. Few things give nerds (the group within which I include myself, with pride) orgasms like talking about honking-big-space-guns. Amen, brother.

Sithspawn: Ah, the suspense… can you smell it?

Maith:Most Imperial technology is actually quite simple in concept. I'm sure even the marines would _understand_ it, even if they couldn't do anything with it… I understand how my rifle works, but couldn't build one. But hey. It's an interesting aside, nonetheless.

Kara:You, and anyone else for that matter, can ask literally any question you like. I do reserve the right to choose to not answer :P… Although I will answer in this case chuckle. I am a very big fan. I'm writing it. I must be. I like to think I get most of my facts write, and can string them together decently… that makes me borderline obsessive. But only borderline. I was first introduced to warhammer by friends of mine, somewhere in the vicinity of twelve years ago. Been playing and reading ever since, to the general detriment of my social life. My first name is Charles, and I am 21. On the off chance that's not a give away, I am male. The pleasure is all mine, and you are indeed hearing from me.

My, my, don't I sound like a personals ad…

Huh:Thank you. I aim to please.

Grayangle:Yes, the Dark Templar/Black Templar confusion is very common, and I fully sympathise. Easy mistake to make. And, as for beverage choice, the proof is in the pudding, or, more specifically, in the bloodwine. Several chapters drink bloodwine… how many drink Fenris Ale? And of course, Picard is an observant fellow. We all know that Imperial ships, almost like a microcosm of the Imperium itself, are usually fairly unpleasant places to be…

Entilza:Cheers. Your words are exceptionally flattering. The Sword might help destroy the Dominion… patience… and Picard may not get the full extent of the Imperium's history… watch and see…

VexedDuck:Ta. The update fairy is banging on the inside of my skull by means of encouragement…

WarhammerFanatic:Thank you. Praise relative to competitors is always appreciated. In answer to the military questions, I'm in the Australian Army, serving at a personnel management unit. I prefer the more stereotypically war-y activities we undertake while on exercise though. I have not been to Iraq, but may in the future. You have my deepest condolences for the loss of your brother. Few things cut like the loss of family.

Aureliusbarzano:The devil's always in the details. One could easily conjure up a story of "he goes to him, they do this, that man dies"… the beauty is in the description, in the interaction, and in the mental imagery. Again, Picard may not learn these things. He may… or he may not… I honestly haven't decided. There will be a lot of Imperial history that he is likely to miss, if only for pragmatic reasons. He would have 38,000 years of history to catch up on… no small task. How much he learns is still open to ponderence…

And, at long, waffling last…

To say Commander Ryalak was uneasy would have been hideously understated. They were alone, outgunned, and relying on the Federation for any assistance that may come their way. On top of that, the monstrosity that was out there was not only crewed by one of the primary races of the Federation, but was entertaining the Federation's senior captain.

Normally, that would make Ryalak intensely paranoid. In fact… it _did_ make him intensely paranoid. It was the Federation, here. One of the oldest enemies of the Romulan Star Empire. More than that. The Federation had been formed to provide mutual defence against "Romulan aggression". Ryalak stifled a mental grimace. It would be unseemly in front of his crew. The Romulans had fought against other races ever since their society had been formed in the break away from Vulcan.

And so few outside the Empire appreciated the reasons for the split. The burgeoning Vulcan philosophy, of peace, thought, and logic over emotion… what a recipe for a stunted, empty, dreary existence. The founders of the Empire knew this. And knew that peace without strength was no peace at all, save the peace that came with the fear of being noticed.

And which subspecies had the Empire now? It certainly wasn't Vulcan.

But that didn't change the fact that the Romulan Star Empire really was in dire straits at the moment. The Dominion War had hit it harder than it had let on. The Romulan Star Empire existed as much by its reputation for ruthlessness and military prowess as it did by the presence of any true military strength.

The concept was simple. In fact, ironically, the ancient human strategist Sun Zi had put it superbly. He had stated that "the pinnacle of military disposition approaches the formless. For if you do not have discernible form, then even the deepest spy cannot reveal it, nor the wise lay plans against it. Thus you may concentrate your forces, and strike while your enemy remains fragmented".

Romulan military strategy in a nutshell. From the perspective of an enemy of the Empire, a large Romulans fleet would materialise without warning above a planet, or station, rapidly overwhelming resistance, accomplishing whatever objective they had set for themselves, then vanishing without a trace. The pattern would repeat. Unable to predict where the next blow would fall, and unable to track Romulan ships, opposing forces would scramble to defend everything, and in the end simply allow themselves to be attacked piecemeal. Within a short period of time, the Romulan Empire had established for itself an enviable, frightening reputation. Galactic history had not fully comprehended the magnitude of the boon that cloaking devices were to the understrength Romulan Star Empire. Their enemies, notably the Federation and the Klingons in the past, were never aware of just how few ships the Romulans actually possessed. On many occasions, the "multiple fleets" that attacked "across whole sectors" was simply the same fleet running on a very high operational tempo.

Carefully timed shows of force, concentrated firepower and an illusion of invincibility. The Tal Shiar had added to the illusion, through carefully aimed misdirection, and the acquisition of carefully utilised military intelligence. The Romulan Star Empire had 66 member worlds. By comparison, the Federation had 150. No other state in the galaxy had ever understood the extent to which the Romulans were 'punching above their weight'. More than likely, they still didn't. The Romulans were powerful, shadowy and ruthless, and a force that no state wanted to confront.

Then came the Dominion War, and a terrible choice for the Empire.

Initially, the Dominion had asked Romulus to allow it use of its territory to move its fleets in the Alpha Quadrant. The Star Empire, in short, didn't want to get involved in the war, and acquiesced. Even the Dominion didn't know the true strength of the Romulan Imperial Navy. This new right of passage was quickly made apparent when Jen'Hadar vessels struck at the Federation through Romulan space. The rest of the galaxy put the situation down to Romulan machinations. None were all that surprised.

Then the Dominion assassins struck. The Tal Shiar, or, more properly, what was left of it, was at a loss to explain the reasoning behind that manoeuvre. But the Romulans had to act, forcefully, or reveal the phantasm of Romulan power for what it really was.

Which meant that the Romulans had to be seen to be contributing to the tripartite alliance on an equal footing. And the Romulans managed it. Just. But this was accomplished by using literally every ship in the fleet. Every single one.

Needless to say, the results were catastrophic for the Empire. A phenomenal proportion of their available firepower was wiped out in a very short space of time. The Romulan Star Empire was essentially crippled in the aftermath of the swirling melee around Cardassia Prime.

But there remained no chance that the Senate would tell the rest of the galaxy that.

So the shroud of secrecy was maintained.

Then came the assassination of the Senate by Shinzon, and the establishment of Reman control. While very short-lived, it was another blow to Romulan pride. A Romulan miscalculation had almost caused grievous harm to another state, and the Romulans had been unable to contain it.

Sure, then-Commander Donatra intervened with her flotilla, and the three Romulan warships, together with the _Enterprise_, had managed to bring down the _Scimitar_. But it had been a near thing.

And what the Federation didn't realise was that the then-Commander small squadron was everything that the Romulans had been able to spare. Bassen Rift was a very lucky break.

Ryalak hadn't lied when he told Picard that Praetor Donatra had political reasons for keeping fleets closer to Romulus than her predecessors. He just hadn't also added that those fleets were vastly smaller than the rest of the galaxy estimated. The Romulan Empire was stretched to breaking point.

Commander Ryalak hated having to rely on anyone but himself. When pressed, he hated relying on non-Romulans. But, he had to admit, as far as non-Romulans went, Captain Picard really wasn't too bad.

Some would call the Romulans xenophobic. Ryalak was aware of this conception amongst non-Romulans. Not that the opinions of non-Romulans bothered him all that much. Ryalak preferred to consider it as pragmatism and/or healthy scepticism. But there were very good cultural and historic reasons why Romulans distrusted outsiders.

Early in its history, Romulus was approached by ships broadcasting messages of friendship. The refugees (they hadn't even begun to think of themselves as Romulans yet) were delighted at the arrival of traders, as their supplies were running very low after the long exodus from Vulcan. They responded, and inquired as to what was being traded.

The ships fired upon them.

While not inflicting many casualties, the supplies that the pirates stole caused a famine on Romulus. The Romulans vowed that it would never happen again, and developed a rudimentary system defence fleet. Progress was swift, and the newly formed "Star Empire" began to annex systems in its area of space.

A number of years later, in the mid twenty second century, contact was made with an Earth vessel broadcasting similar messages of goodwill. It stumbled upon a Romulan mine field, and was forced out of Romulan space with a mine still attached to its hull.

Ryalak snorted. Wasn't history interesting? That ship had also borne the name _Enterprise_. As irony would have it, THAT message of good will was probably genuine.

But the mould had been set, and Romulans were very different in culture to their Vulcan cousins. They were hostile, because the galaxy was. They were the first to strike, because he who doesn't strike first is the first struck.

But the _Sword of Lycurgas_… well…

That ship represented all of Romulus' fears, materialised simultaneously. Humans, who had so frightened early Romulan civilisation, and had, alone, fought them to a standstill in the Earth-Romulan war. Humans who were now the most populous species of the largest state in the Alpha and Beta quadrants. Humans, who now, as the Federation, professed to peace and co-existence, but possessed the largest war fleet in the quadrant, especially with the immense casualties sustained by the Klingons at the hands of the Breen Confederacy.

Ryalak had read human history. Was passably well versed in it. As the Star Empire's only true opponent for so many years, it was a good political move, as well as good for understanding his enemy.

Ryalak knew of what barbarity that race was capable of, even, or perhaps especially) to itself. Had read of extermination camps that would have made the Tal Shiar shudder. Seen infomentaries chronicling the cataclysmic wars that had raged across the surface of their world. For many years, humans sputtered about their world by means of animal power and internal combustion engines, while their militaries hoarded fusion bombs, and experimented with lasers and anti-matter.

And here, in front of him, was a vessel that represented the completely divergent path to that the Federation had taken. An ode to the darkness of the human spirit and a testament to a culture for which violence was holy. A concept abhorred by contemporary humanity, as it was abhorred by the Vulcans. But in both cases, Human and Vulcan, violence had been abandoned not because they failed at it, but, au contraire, because they excelled at it. Both races nearly obliterated themselves. The Romulan faction of Vulcans avoided destroying themselves by directing their aggression outwards. Humans and Vulcans sidestepped the issue.

Here though… here was the results of a humanity that had not shunned its baser urges. That had embraced militancy, as Romulus had always feared the Federation might. And that had done so with stunning alacrity. If Picard put a foot wrong, from Ryalak's perspective, then… well. It was entirely possible that that monstrous ship could single handedly signal the end of the Empire.

And, at the hands of this "Imperium".

Perhaps that's what scared Ryalak the most.

Aggressive. Militaristic. Violent. An Imperial State.

They were facing a twisted shadow of themselves.

So, he sat on his chair on the bridge, and tried not to appear agitated as the chronometer clicked over.

A commbadge chimed, and Colonel Kira started from the PADD she was scanning, before tapping it and responding.

"Kira"

"_Ma'am, several starfleet ships have dropped to impulse, and are hailing us_."

"On my way."

At least she was still in uniform. Then she began to grumble to herself on the way out. When you were still in uniform at 2530h, that meant you really had no life. The bridge was the same as it always had been. Only the faces were different. The same lament she had every time she walked onto it.

"On screen."

The viewscreen changed from the starfield approach to the wormhole to the bridge of a _Sovereign_ class vessel. The centre of the screen was taken up by the image of a light-skinned vulcan male, wearing the standard black and grey Federation ship's jumpsuit, with the red collared command shirt visible underneath. Four pips stood proud of the material.

"This is Captain S'Var of the USS _Odyssey, _task group Omicron. We have been directed by Starfleet Command to make ourselves available to your station for sector defence."

"This is Colonel Kira, commanding officer of Deep Space Nine. Welcome. Your arrival is unexpected, but appreciated. Ops will send you docking instructions for your ships, and if you have no objections, I'd like you and any of the officers you want to bring to meet me on the station at 0900h. We have a lot of material to cover about the situation here. I was going to brief the station's current fleet then… I will present all the information at the same time."

"Certainly, Colonel. My officers and I will be ready for transport by 0830h."

"Good. If you need anything, let us know."

"Thank you for your hospitality."

"Any time. Kira out."

There were a couple of moments silence on the bridge, before Kira spoke again, her Bajoran accent still strange to the Federation officers. Especially now, as she spoke with her head fractionally to one side, a small smile, and her voice pitched higher with expectation.

"What exactly is in that fleet?"

There was another brief pause, before Ops answered.

"Two _Sovereigns, _the USS _Odyssey_ and _King William_, three _Galaxy'_s, the _Khitomer_, _Benevolent, _and _New Orleans_, eight _Akira_'s, twelve _Ambassador_s, seventeen _Excelsior_s… ma'am, the list goes on. There are a lot of ships here."

"Can I get a list of ships, together with their classes, sent to my quarters?"

It wasn't really a question.

"Aye, ma'am. Sending it through now."

Kira turned to walk off the bridge once more. THAT was the sort of thing she was willing to leave her quarters for…

Thousands of kilometres away from the station, an eye-blink's distance in galactic terms, the starfield, pinpricks of brilliant white light against the black, burst into glorious colour. Streams of blue, pink and jade emerged from the funnel of nothingness.

The Celestial Temple, the Bajoran Wormhole, was open.


	18. Confound nature's nightmare

Hello again, all. Once more, apologies for the delay, and the worry it will have caused some of you. Real life keeps me remarkably well occupied. Hopefully I'll be able to put in another chapter sometime next week… the load at work is about to drop off notably (which translates into 'the senior officers are attending a week long conference somewhere else'). Thank you all for the reviews again. They're always good to see, even the critical ones, and it's nice to know that the hours that go in at least get _someone_ looking at them… 

Thanks to Wes, my beta, on the off chance you actually read this in the online version, as well as just my email. Of course, if you _did_ read it online, that would mean that you are reading it at work… which would be bad… but that's ok. I won't tell… 

Blauri:Thank you for the compliment. Suspense is a wonderful thing. It's too easy (and very tempting) to write action scenes all the time. That's not what makes a decent story though. Of course, having said just that, this chapter has a great deal of violence in it. A great deal. Hence the changed ratings. But once more, thank you…

The Sithspawn:Good guesses, all. I can't say that any of them are necessarily correct, but those are damn good guesses. And the progenitors concept… hmmmmmmm… tough to intermingle with the ST universe… I may just play Ostrich with that one… much like the Eldar issue…

Liljimmyurine:The Bajorans… umm… own DS9… so they'd be aware of everything that goes on there… at least unless Starfleet was pulling the wool over their eyes. Sun Tzu is the old spelling, like Mao Tse-Tung is the old spelling. Contemporaneously, it's Sun Zi, and Mao Zedong. The phonetics work better in the translation. And damn straight I'm a nerd. It counterbalances my violent tendencies quite nicely. At least, as far as I am concerned. But a valid point. This next chapter is far less nerdy…

Oblivionknight: I will try to update faster… no guarantees…

Grayangle:Not sure how familiar you are with ST canon, but the wormhole lead to the other side of the galaxy, where a large and hostile state tried very hard to invade. A particularly large fleet was displaced in time, when Captain Sisko convinced the entities that dwell there to displace the fleet in time. But it wasn't destroyed, and will emerge at some unknown time… that's the premise anyway. Yes… that fleet would cause a lot of trouble indeed. I am, might I add, particularly curious to hear your ideas on my take on the state of the Imperium…

Huh:Ta, faster is tough, but longer… well… this is longer. The longest chapter yet, in fact…

The Defiler:It was actually quite easy to write in such a way that portrays the Imperium in a scary light. The Imperium IS scary. No, really, it is. It's a very dark take on the future. Most people don't actually appreciate how much so. It's a social analyst's nightmare. Almost a case of seeing humanity at its absolute, rock-bottom worst. Almost. That critical 'almost' that makes self-sacrifice seem so profound…

Zanthoz:The Federation and Imperium have very different technologies. Very different indeed. The Federation is almost like the Eldar in many of its technological concepts. Elegant, power-and space efficient, stylish and precise. In some ways, it has its advantages. But the Imperium has advanced further in many areas. Its engines are more powerful. Its weapons are higher yield. Its shields are stronger. To say the Federation is more advanced is wrong. To say it has advanced differently would be accurate. And the Inquisition exists solely under the mandate that the primacy of mankind must be ensured. If it decided that the pros of any action were out-weighed by the cons, then they would not take that action. Losing 3 loyal chapters by forcing a single suspect chapter to comply was dubious… it's on this premise that the Space Wolves continue to operate along non-codex lines… The pros of compliance are outweighed by the cons of enforcing it…

Maith:Correct assessment. Cheers for the support.

Mindi:High compliments, to be sure, for which I thank you. And cliffhangers do have some advantages…

So there you go all. Ta again for the reviews, and enjoy…

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The ground rumbled, and the horizon shook. The Imperial Guard was on the move again. Thousands of artillery pieces pounded out the earth-shattering dirge, lobbing clusters of high explosives onto targets dozens of kilometres away. Basilisks. Very handy pieces of equipment. Could be very useful when the going got a bit dicey. 

Which was precisely why the lumbering self-propelled guns were firing almost constantly. 

The Imperial Guard had launched a massive assault to drive the Tyranid units back across the river. Lomas was, once again, under siege. The Kraken would not rest. 

The first Ichar IV campaign had been one of the largest in living memory. Hundreds of marine chapters had sent units. Billions of Imperial Guard. The fleet had watched in frustration, unwilling to unleash their guns on the vital planet. Ichar IV was one of very few heavily industrialised worlds on the eastern fringe, and was vital to the Imperium's defence in the sector. The fleet did not want to risk pounding that very infrastructure to rubble. 

Instead, they focussed their efforts on keeping the Hive Fleets at bay. A task they had accomplished, with effort. 

Ichar IV had been held. The fleets and armies had departed. Imperial resources went to other theatres, as Kraken's advance had competed with the Gothic War, Ghazgkull Thraka's Armaggedon offensive, Hive Fleet Leviathan's front and, most recently, yet another Black Crusade under Abaddon the Despoiler. 

The Tyranids couldn't have timed this offensive better if they'd tried. 

The Imperium was stretched. Stretched like it hadn't been since the Age of Apostasy. The battlefleets of the Segmentum Obscuras were running at 28 percent of their pre-black crusade strength. Battlefleet Solar was fighting on two fronts, by picking up the slack in the galactic north, and staving off incursions from above the galaxy's spiral axis from Hive Fleet Leviathan. Tempestus was still recovering from the Gothic War, and was constantly called upon to support the always over-stretched fleet units fighting from Cypra Mundi. 

Only the fleet units out of Macharia were anything like their nominal strength. But Macharia, and the Segmentum Pacificus, was about as far away from Ichar as you could get in the same galaxy. 

And Hive Fleet Kraken was advancing again and Ichar was taking the first wave. Elements of Battlefleet Ultima was mounting a tenacious intra-system war with sub-units of the Hive Fleet, neither being able to hold contact with the planet for long. The former due to the latter, and the latter by a combination of the Imperial Navy, and the mammoth defence lasers still in operation in most of the major cities. 

Needless to say, the stalemate left the ground units to slug it out. Something that both the Imperium and Tyranids excelled at. 

The Emperor-damned overgrown insects got everywhere. Food supplies were sometimes contaminated, ammo-dumps raided, convoys attacked hundreds of kilometres from the front. Morale was low. The Tyranids just kept on coming. 

The Ichar IV Planetary Defence Force was a shadow of its former self. The Genestealer insurrection, first tyrannic invasion, and now a second, had left it in tatters. Inquisitorial purges, equipment shortages and the requirements of imposing martial law on a fractious, well-armed, frustrated and anti-authoritarian populace, didn't help the matter. PDF troops were not supposed to act as Adeptus Arbites. Other Imperial forces were enroute, but, for the moment, the seven million strong Ichar IV PDF was it. And a single company of Dark Templars. 

Most importantly, the war was not faring well. The Tyranids, lesser in numbers than during the first invasion, thank the Emperor, were advancing. Not quickly. Not spectacularly, but they were advancing. More than once, Imperial units had only survived by virtue of the single Dark Templar company rapidly deploying from orbit to stave off an attempted encirclement while the Guardsmen withdrew. But the Dark Templars were operating at an obscenely high tempo, and their ship, the _Gladius_ was playing a dangerous game with the Hive Fleet. 

Although, admittedly, the risks that were associated with the frequently deployment of the Dark Templar 5th Cohort were not uppermost in the mind of Corporal Miguel Alvarez at that moment. What was uppermost was a feeling of semi-controlled panic, coupled with a healthy dose of anger, frustration, and moderate amounts of desperation. 

And he was swearing at himself. Try as he might, he just could not get his lasgun to hit the targets in front of him. He should have been able to. Really. There were enough targets to choose from. Really there were. It should have been well within his ability to land at least one hit on the incoming mass of – 

"CORPORAL ALVAREZ, IF YOU DON'T START HITTING SOME 'NIDS, I WILL KICK YOUR GODDAMN ARSE SO HARD YOU'LL TASTE BOOTLEATHER!" 

The platoon sergeant, Sergeant McMarn, was an older man, the senior soldier in the platoon, and Lieutenant Mitchell's right hand. He was also renowned for a bastard of a temper. 

But the yelling had done its job, and Alvarez had been, almost literally, kicked out of his zen-like state, and was back in his right mind. Which was good… Alvarez was echo squad's commander… 

The noise was pervasive. The high pitched sizzling crackles of lasgun fire warring with the screams of termagants as waves of them were cut down. Entrenched heavy bolters blazed, the distinct bolter bang-whoosh siren-song punctuating the firefight. And the situation was tight. There were so many of them, and the 'nids were getting mighty close. 

Instinct made him duck, and as he did something swished through the space where his head had been, before splattering behind him on the hard parked earth works. 

Fleshborer – his mind supplied. Tyranid symbiont-weapon. Uses electrical discharge to cause a borer-beetle to supercharge its legs, leaping out the front of the weapon towards the target, before either splattering and spraying acidic blood over the target, or landing and expending the last 15 seconds of its life in a frenzy of biting, chewing, gnashing and chomping. 

Scary, but rather short ranged… short ranged. Shit. 

"Echo, heads up, termagant brood, less than 100. And 10 creds says they aren't walking…" 

"Mother-of-fuck." Lindsay Barnard, the squad's muscle-bound flamer-operator, added with his usual eloquence, as he primed the nozzle-flame with a thump. 

"Keep it together people, it's just another bunch of 'nids. Nothin' to get worked up over." 

The timing was almost stereotypical in its relation to Murphy's law. No sooner had the words leapt, almost unbidden, out of the squad commander's mouth, than someone shouted a warning, a fraction of a second before a spore mine floated down onto their position, and exploded. 

The blast, for an organic-explosion, would be impressive to an academic. But, to a reluctant soldier in a trench, it was not dissimilar to being slammed into a wall at medium to high velocity. Alvarez couldn't even gasp as all the air fell flew from his lungs, and as his lasgun flew from his hands. It was a couple of seconds before he was able to pull himself up again, the immediacy of the situation making him drag his protesting body back to its feet. 

He staggered to the wall of the trench, and bent down for his lasgun, the ringing in his ears reducing the sounds of battle to a muted whine. Everything seemed so surreal. 

Alvarez swivelled his head, the world seeming to move in slow motion. He saw termagants bounding into the trench ahead of him. Watched Barnard turn two into shuddering piles of goo, then a third, and a fourth, clearing the trench line. The fifth got him, pouncing on his right shoulder, as 'gants poured over the trench wall and sinking its teeth into his neck. A sixth, seventh and eighth 'gant jumped in, and the Imperial Guard Corporal found himself rooted to the spot as his squad was over-run. Weyland "Bookman" Carney clubbed one, hard, with the but of his lasgun, then shot it at point blank range, before two more leapt on him. Andrews came round a trench corner, firing from the hip. He cut down two more before the brood turned their fleshborers on him, acid splatters bringing the man down, mouth open in agony as the acid ate its way through his flesh. 

Alvarez watched him scream, but couldn't hear it. His ears were still ringing. 

It was almost surreal, he thought. 

'I'm watching my men getting cut down, and I'm not moving. I should try to help.' 

But he couldn't move. His muscles appeared to have a mind of their own. 

An eternity later, or perhaps a second, Lindsay Barnard's head rolled to Alvarez's feet. The open, lifeless eyes looked back up at him accusingly. Alvarez stared back, and seconds passed, while the din of battle continued around him. A termagant ran past him, and then another. And another. 

The fourth to scuttle past him bumped him a little. The spell was broken. 

He screamed, and brought his lasgun to the shoulder, and fired at the Tyranid less than four feet away. Time passed in a blur, as lessons drilled into him years ago came to the fore. 

_Arms steady, weapon in the shoulder, keep both eyes open. Look down the barrel of the weapon, pull the trigger once for each target. Aim for centre of seen mass. _

Alvarez fired again and again, pirouetting twice as his over-sharp ears heard the twittering chatter of a fresh broods behind him. He was too focussed to hear his own voice, the scream constant, hoarse, and tearing the delicate muscles of his strands of his vocal chords. 

He moved back behind the trench wall, hyperventilating, and threw down his power-pack, before slamming another in and switching the safety back to 'fire'. 

Then he was out, and he was, once more, the instrument of the Emperor's wrath. 

He barely noticed when his weapon's power-pack ran dry a second time. And a third. Conscious thought had long since died within the walls of his mind. He was almost in a trance, the scream reduced to a gurgle as his throat bubbled with blood. Turn, sight, aim, fire. Turn, sight, aim, fire. 

A borer beetle blasted through the fleshy part of his thigh, leaving a gash that quickly filled with fluid. He didn't flinch. Another missed his head by millimetres. For those few seconds, Alvarez was a charmed soldier. 

Then a sharpened harpoon of bone impacted with the centre of his weapon, cleaving it neatly in two. – Spikerifle – his subconscious mind volunteered. He discarded the wrecked rifle, and turn to his left in time to see a termagant leap onto his chest, talons forward. 

Alvarez was bowled over, but continued the roll, throwing the creature over his head. When it came again, he was ready, and a foot impacted with its face, pushing its neck back with a resounding crack. 

Then another came into melee range, and the man returned its snarl in kind, and threw himself at the 'gant. 

Four minutes later, Lieutenant Mitchell arrived at a run, charlie and delta squads in his wake, only to be brought up short by the sight before him. Tyranid corpses were piled up in a rough circle, foul-smelling purple ichor all over the walls and floor of the earthworks. And, most shockingly, was the corporal himself, covered in blood, his own as well as Tyranid, knees pressed to his chest and rocking himself backwards and forwards. Torn shreds of his uniform clung to his almost equally torn body, more blood sputtering erratically from his reddened lips, to ooze down his chin. 

Mitchell heard one of the guardsmen from delta squad heave his guts up. The tang of vomit mingled easily into the general acrid stench. The lieutenant surveyed the surrounds grimly. Echo was a complete loss. 

"Charlie zero alpha, this is Charlie Three Niner, attack has been halted. Three Echo has suffered 100 percent casualties, over." 

There was a pause, before the radio crackled to life once more. 

"Roger that. Will bump that up. Good work, lieutenant." 

Mitchell closed the channel. He hadn't done anything. Hadn't even given an order. And somehow, Echo squad, or rather Corporal Alvarez, had held the line. But the platoon had lost 20 percent of its combat strength in two days. He had a feeling that the entirety of three company wasn't much better off. 

Nor, for that matter, was Ichar IV, in totality… If reinforcements didn't arrive soon, Ichar was doomed. Again. 

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The_ Leonidas_ and _Triarius _dropped from warp space just outside of the Ichar system, and into the middle of a storm. Lysander stood from his chair as the mainscreen showed a _Gothic_-class cruiser firing a broadside into an oncoming bio-ship. Bio-ship. Emperor-be-damned, Lysander despised Tyranids. But the timing was fortuitous, he thought to himself, as a _Cobra_-class destroyer exploded beneath a concentrated salvo of organic weaponry. 

Tactical was the first station to report. 

"Sirs, a _Gothic-_class, a _Tyrant_-class, and four _Cobra_s are escorting a twelve ship convoy. There are nine class-equivalent Tyranid bio-vessels." 

The comms officer on the _Leonidas_ spoke next. 

"Sirs, one of the Imperial vessels are broadcasting on open frequency, audio only." 

Lysander answered him. 

"Roger that, lets hear it. Bondsman-Captain, signal the _Triarius, _we're going in. Lets take some heat off that cruiser." 

A bondsman took the opportunity to play the audio message, the contents unsurprising. 

"To any vessels receiving, this is the Imperial Warship _Twilight Hammer_. We are escorting a convoy inbound to Ichar IV, and we are under attack by Tyranid bio-ships. Request immediate assistance. Message repeats. To any vessels…" 

It's information conveyed, the bondsman cut the feed, as the _Leonidas_' powerful engines flared, driving it towards the beleaguered Imperial units. 

Bondsman-Captain Phillips gave his orders at maximum range, which, to the strike cruiser's dorsal lance battery, was notable. 

"Forward lances, fire at will." 

The triple-barrelled turret spewed concentrated azure light across the kilometres of void, before impacting cleanly with one of the larger Tyranid organisms. There was no explosion, as you might find on conventional warships, but yellow-green tinted energy flickered then gave out as the coherent beam punched through the psi-shielding, to impact with the armoured carapace. It seemed to collapse in on itself, rupturing as if hollow, and purple fluid began leaking into space in its wake. 

Phillips spoke again, directing his ship with the consummate grace of a career officer. Not that he'd had any choice in the matter. 

"Helm, come left ten degrees, five degrees up angle. Let's bring our broadsides into play." 

"Aye, sir." 

The ship slid easily through its manoeuvres, the dorsal turret sliding effortlessly through the turn, still fixed on its target while the power cells cycled. 

The second blast sheared away the Tyranid ship's starboard flank, and it sluggishly turned its tail to the _Leonidas_, and accelerated away, purple stains dissipating into space. But not before the Hive fleet had turned, as one, and begun moving for positional advantage against the new threat. 

"Helm, continue the turn. All starboard weapons, fire at will." 

It was a good minute before the sleek cruiser's starboard came alight as weapon batteries and lances spoke as one, gigatons of force being hurled across the void to slam against the forward armour of the lead Tyranid vessel. 

The effect was not dissimilar to that one would expect had the bio-ship been hit with a gigantic wrecking ball. The fore section, across its entire breadth, caved in, and the monstrosity began to list forwards and down. 

The dorsal lance fired again, and solidly clipped the port flank of one of the smaller ships, and set it spinning, before the volatile gases within its weapons bays mixed and exploded, tearing the port third from the hull. The thing's distressed psychic death-throes made astropaths on all of the Imperial ships flinch. 

But the Tyranid vessels had closed, and the first wave of spores had been flung towards the Deathbringer cruiser. Several impacted against the void shields, but they held, the ship shuddering slightly. 

The _Triarius _was into the fray next. Its lack of a dorsal lance turret had forced it to adopt different tactics. It had swung left earlier, and now could fire at the vessels occupied with the _Leonidas_. Something it proceeded to do in spectacular style. 

Its first broadside caught the Tyranids unawares once more, pushing one ship sideways and interfering with the onward progress of another, which angled up to avoid a collision. 

The bio-ships fired again, in a synchronisation which was more than slightly frightening. Not that Tyranids were ever notably pleasant company. 

The void shields gave way this time, the weight of firepower, and a couple of shots rattled against the hull, although the plasteel armour held. 

"Hard right sixty degrees. All ahead full. Get us amongst them." 

As far as ships went, the space marine strike cruiser was faster than most. And the _Leonidas_ was an exceptionally quick strike cruiser. Its engines glowed, the colour angry against the darkness of space, and the vessel leapt forward like a horse before a riding whip. The starboard weapons fired again before sliding out of arc, the creatures moving like flies before a swung hand. 

The _Triarius'_ second salvo connected with the same ship, and it fell apart at the seams, breaking up to the vacuum in seconds. 

Within the shell of the Deathbringer warship, the atmosphere was beyond tense. The ship was well built, and durable, but at this range the hull wouldn't last long. Sweat trickled of countless brows as the Emperor received many a prayer for the void shields to reset. 

The ships weapons officer peered at his console, willing the shield status to flicker back to green, as if sheer weight of determination could speak to the craft's machine spirit. 

"Come on, you bastard thing, come on…" 

Waiting was the hardest part. There was nothing that any of the crew could do except pray that the shields came back online. It was a race. If the Tyranid bio-weapons cycled first, the ship was doomed. 

Bondsman-Captain Phillips stole a glance over at Brother-Captain Lysander. The man was somewhat reclined in his chair. He looked almost bored, in fact. Did nothing faze that man? 

The Tyranids fired first. But distance was their friend. The _Leonidas_' void shields came up again, a fraction of a second before another world-shattering salvo from the Tyranid sub-fleet, at near point blank range, brought them back down again. 

But it was long enough. The _Leonidas_ was amongst the fleet. And Bondsman-Captain Phillips was able to issue an order that every Imperial ship captain dreams for. 

"All weapons, port and starboard, FIRE." 

The effect was immediate. The small Hive fleet was pushed back in both directions as the weight of the strike cruiser's double broadsides forced a wedge between the Tyranid fleet. And the damage was equally spectacular. Two lighter ships crumpled under the weight of firepower, and a third careened off into space like a punctured balloon. 

But the next salvo would do them in. There were still three bio-ships left, and at point blank, with no shields, the light-cruiser-equivalent marine vessel would crack like an egg. 

But a monstrous blast from the Tyranid rear signalled the arrival of the _Twilight Hammer, _the big Gothic-class cruiser's array of port lances cleaving one of the Emperor-damned creatures in twain. The other two, displaying an uncanny coordination, accelerated quickly and the marine ships watched as the Cobra destroyers took off in hot pursuit. The Tyranids would not get far. 

The crew of the _Leonidas_ cheered. And it was the Brother-Captain that spoke first. 

"Bondsmen, control yourselves. Back to your stations." 

The cheering and laughter died down quickly. The voice of a brother-captain had that effect. Lysander depressed the comms button on his command chair. The soft chime announced that his voice would now be heard. 

"Bondsmen and brothers of the _Leonidas_. To those of you of were not aware of what just transpired, we have, in company with our allies, the Dark Templar of the _Triarius, _just destroyed six Tyranid bio-ships. The Imperial convoy we have just rendezvoused with owes us their continued service to the Emperor in this existence. The Emperor will be more merciful than usual, if you find yourself guilty of the sin of pride, at this juncture. That is all." 

The silence on the bridge was not a tense one, but rather was charged with optimism. The bondsmen of a marine fleet, so often one of the most under-valued assets of the Imperium, had just rescued the high-and-mighty Imperial Navy. And the ship had suffered only minimal damage, even if the void shields had received a work-out. 

Another chime noted an incoming signal. 

"Sirs, the _Twilight Hammer_ is hailing us." 

Lysander stood, and re-assumed his role as commander in-toto. 

"On screen". 

The viewscreen switched to the interior of the _Twilight Hammer_'s bridge, which looked far less impressive in its scorched, smoking and blackened state than did the menacing exterior of the vessel. A man wearing the rank of an Imperial Navy Captain sat centre screen, his command chair smouldering and sparking. 

"I am Captain Colefax of the _Twilight Hammer_. On behalf of everyone on this ship, and the sixteen million souls of this convoy, I thank you, your crew, and your ships. Your intervention has kept us in a position to yet serve His will. We are all in your debt." 

Lysander smiled back at him grimly. The _Leonidas_ was intact, but the _Twilight Hammer_ obviously wasn't. But if this Captain's word was good, then the Deathbringers had quite possibly just made another powerful ally. Gothic-class cruisers were nothing to be trifled with and, while not as agile as a strike cruiser, packed a powerful punch by virtue of the high proportion of lances along its broadsides. 

"Well met, Captain Colefax. I am Brother-Captain Richard Lysander, of the Deathbringers Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, and commander of the _Leonidas_. With me is Brother-Centurion Revinius of the Dark Templars, aboard the _Triarius_. We are glad that our arrival was, Emperor praised, in good time. How badly damaged are you and your escorts?" 

"Nothing we cannot fix within a day or so. All critical systems remain functional, although there isn't much slack left. What brings you to this part of space? We're a long way from Lycurgas." 

Bold question from an Imperial Navy Captain, but not unexpected. They _were_ a long way from Deathbringer territories. 

"We are attempting to rendezvous with a Dark Templar vessel in the area, as part of an ongoing inquiry concerning the whereabouts of one of our ships. The latest tasking orders out of Nadgazad had it taking part in a convoy operation towards Ichar IV." 

"Of course, Dark Templars. I should have guessed it would be something to do with the _Gladius_. Is that the ship you're after?" 

The Deathbringer officer was relieved to hear those words. To have travelled so far, and then been told that the _Gladius _had moved on or, worse yet, been lost, would have been… disheartening. 

"Yes, Captain, that's the one. What news of it?" 

"As of three weeks ago, it was running in and out of orbit around the planet itself. Very high risk. But with could cause. Often the marines on board were the only factor keeping the PDF units from being overrun. Whether they are still doing so is uncertain. They are, Emperor willing…" 

Pondering the matter at hand, Lysander nodded slowly. They had best make haste. Then, something of Captain Colefax's opening statement came back to the fore of his mind. 

"Captain, did you say sixteen _million_ souls in that convoy?" 

The Captain looked puzzled, and then slightly guarded. 

"Aye. We carry reinforcements to Ichar. Men and materiel for the campaign against the Tyranids. The situation there IS grim, Brother-Captain." 

Lysander pursed his lips, and nodded once more. An extra sixteen million guardsmen would probably go a long way towards making Ichar IV a safer place. Ichar IV and, by extension, the Imperium. 

They were headed to the same place, with a crucial cargo, on a mission vital to Imperial interests. Yes, the next course of action was blindingly obvious. 

"Well, I guess you'd have no objection to a pair of strike cruisers joining you for the rest of the journey in?" 

The Imperial officer broke into an open grin for the first time. 

"Brother-Captain, they day I say 'no' to freely offered help from Adeptus Astartes is the day that I have myself committed to serving the Emperor as a trash-servitor. We'd be delighted to have you along. It's a dangerous patch of space between here and Ichar." 

"We both serve Him, Captain. We both serve Him." 

"That we do. Our thanks again. Colefax out." 

Things were looking up. Again. Then Lysander chastised himself. Hope was, after all, the first step on the road to disappointment… 

"Bondsman, patch us through to the _Triarius_." 

"Channel open, audio only." 

"Revinius, did you follow that conversation?" 

"Every word, brother. And good news, to be sure. I'm also happy to hear that Centurion Lucinius is making his presence felt. Not that I every really thought he wouldn't. It's Lucinius. He could make his presence felt with a toothpick through adamantium." 

Lysander chuckled. Revinius had always had a way with words. 

"Lets give these navy pukes an escort in." 

Revinius' laughter was left echoing as the Dark Templar Brother-Centurion closed the channel. 

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The Imperial Guard advance had ground to a halt. The Tyranid counter-offensive had been notably larger than expected. Tyranid units were freshly spawned now on Ichar itself. The very ecology of the planet, what was left of it after millenia of Imperial control, had been turned against humanity. Spawning vats converted genetic matter into termagants and hormagaunts beyond counting. A weight of mass that, unusually, the Imperium could not match. And initial gains secured by weight of bombardment had stopped when the infantry pushed past the range of the artillery. 

The line was holding. But the spearheads had been blunted. Instead of, as intended, the massed artillery obliterating entire sections of the front, individual batteries were tasked to support sections desperate for fire-support in the face of a coordinated offensive, terrifying in its speed and scope. 

It was as if a switch had been thrown. Sectors of the front that had been quiet for weeks came alive, as countless termagants, hormagaunts and warriors hurled themselves against the Imperial battle line. 

In the vast majority of cases, the line held fast. The Imperial forces were no longer green, and had learnt the value of rapid entrenchment, and the utility of heavy firepower employed en-masse. 

In some parts, however, where the Tyranid attacks were unusually heavy, where ammunition is short, or where the troops were less experienced, through too much fighting, or not enough, the line cracked. It was at these points that the Tyranids poured fresh units. From where they came, the Imperial command could only guess. Tyranids had long been adept at generating huge forces seemingly from nothing. It was considered "just one of those things". 

But that phrase was not to give the men of Charlie Company, 41st Infantry, Ichar IV PDF, any comfort. What would have given them comfort would have been a chimera-load of powerpacks, several pallets of rations, and maybe a Warlord Titan. They were desperate. They had held, but Foxtrot Company, on their left, and India Company, on their right, had both been forced back half a click. Charlie was in very real danger of being surrounded, or, if not surrounded, just plain overrun. And if Charlie broke, the understrength and already brow-beaten Foxtrot and India Companies would collapse as well. And a three-company hole in the 41st Regiment's line would blow the 41st wide open. With the 41st gone, the whole sector would be looking very dicey. 

So Mitchell, three platoon's commanding officer, knew that his job was a crucial one. He'd fought for weeks continuously. The 'nids just kept on coming. And if he faltered, or even made a mistake, it could collapse the entire front. Command had promised reinforcements. Had said that the Emperor wouldn't forget them. But Mitchell was an officer. He knew the tricks. Knew that senior officers would promise just about anything to ensure that their soldiers continued to fight for them. And they did. And if the lies were found out, the integrity and stance of those senior officers would be undermined that much. 

So they usually only handed out such blatant falsehoods to desperate men in need of much emotional support. 

Unless something changed, quickly, the 41st Icharian Infantry was doomed.The debacle with Alvarez had left in his wake was only just fading from consciousness within the platoon. The mess that had so gruesomely welcomed him and the other two squads of his platoon had stuck in the company's psyche as a bad omen. Alvarez had been well liked, and for him to be struck down to madness had hit the unit hard. It had added to the general sombre mood, and morale was low. 

Mitchell ducked on instinct as another spikerifle shot slammed into the paradot above and behind him. He watched Private Summers move up to the firing step, take a sight picture with his lasgun, and fire of a shot. 

"Take that you fucking oversized bug. You and all your stinking buddies." 

The unit's frustration was boiling over. The men were restless, and, for any foe where there was a chance of surrender, Mitchell wouldn't have trusted them as far as he could throw them. 

Upon reflection he probably wouldn't have trusted himself much more. 

But these were Tyranids. Surrender meant death as surely as putting a laspistol to your head and pulling the trigger. 

So instead, the men became manic. Eyes became ever more crazed. Discipline began to break down. Fatalism began to take hold. Weeks, and months, spent fighting the Great Devourer broke men down. Tempers became frayed and brittle. Constant Tyranid attacks made insomniacs of the whole unit. By doctrine, the unit would be withdrawn after two weeks, and given a break to recuperate. Men were more useful to the Emperor if they could fight effectively. 

It had all sounded good in training. Sounded just like everything was under control, and would be kept that way. It had sounded like there was a plan for all contingencies. 

But not against the Tyranids. The fact of the matter was… there weren't any reserves to rotate through. The only units that were available were units held to the rear to respond where any units collapsed. And they were getting smaller and smaller as sub-units were sent to contain localised breaches all along the line. 

The lieutenant barely shifted as a succession of thunderous explosions rumbled across the front again. At least the Basilisks were still firing. When they stopped… 

The top of Private Summers' head exploded, and blood and cerebral matter sprayed over the trench. The corpse fell backwards, the back of the head and jaw hitting the rear, and the body sliding down into the trench. 

Mitchell swore. Summers had been a good soldier. Or what passed for one at the moment. And a good marksman. A rarity amongst PDF soldiers. The officer reached down and pulled at the dead man's dog-tags. If, by some miracle, the unit survived, then Mitchell would account for every one of his dead men, and demand that Charlie Company's commander, Major Marbig, ensure that all the other platoon commanders did the same thing. 

A lot could be (and was) said about PDF units, but, if nothing else, they were dying for humanity. One way or another. 

The comm-net spoke, and the voice of Major Marbig came online. 

"Three platoon, heads up, seven light broods, with one brood of medium support, heading your way." 

The third attack like that since breakfast. And his men were running out of ammunition. Food was a pipedream. And eight broods. That could be company strength… all coming down on his battered platoon. 

"Anything moving up to support us, sir?" 

"Sorry, John. Everyone's under attack, barring you. They've pinned us down, good and proper. I'm chopping the mortar teams to your sector, but that's all I can do." 

Mitchell nodded. He hadn't expected much else. He closed his eyes, and rubbed his face with the heel of his right hand. 

"Eta, sir?" 

"No more than ten minutes." 

"Roger that. Cheers for the warning." 

"Good luck, John. Emperor be with you." 

When the comm clicked off, Mitchell had the fleeting thought that it might be the last time he heard from his superiors. He banished the thought. There could be no room for doubt in combat. He took a deep breath, then expelled it again at full volume. 

"Three platoon, stand to. Stand to. We have incoming. I say again, stand to." 

The hustle of preparing men sounded through the trench line. 

"Men, be advised, command reports that we have seven broods of lights, and one medium, heading our way. ETA seven minutes." 

Dull, metallic thuds precluded booms as the company's mortar section leant close fire support. The impacts blossoming in the middle distance brought high pitched, chittering Tyranid screams, the foul wind carrying the sound. 

Mitchell didn't have to see his men's faces to know the general flow of their thoughts. The fear was palpable. And he didn't blame them for the fear. He was terrified as well. 

The screams had given them a good idea of the range, and every available soldier took to the parapet. Lasguns were levelled down-range, and the platoon's heavy weapons teams chambered rounds, and waited for optimum firing solutions. 

The tension was palpable, and the sudden silence had everyone even more on edge. The second wave of mortar fire made everyone jump, then chuckle slightly. Mitchell thought that this would be a good time to say a few words to give heart to his men. They would need it. He strode down the trench, just behind the firing step. 

"Third platoon, eyes to the front, ears to me." 

The platoon's attention shifted from their eyes to their ears, and to the words of their commanding officer. 

"Here and now we stand at the van of Imperium. But what is it? The Imperium is humanity. The embodiment of mankind. And it is on that behalf that we fight today. And we don't fight against something petty, like tyranny or despotism. We don't fight for freedom. We don't fight for glory, honour or wealth." 

Reaching the end of the line, he spun and began to walk back the way he came. More explosions punctured the stillness, the basilisks speaking once more. Gargoyles wheeled and banked in the distance, their shrill, raucous cries carrying on the wind. 

"Over there comes the Great Devourer. It will come again, and again, and they will not stop coming until every last trace of us, and our people and way of life are wiped from history." 

The sound of the Tyranid advance could now be heard clearly, and the howl of the chitinous warriors sent a shudder down the lieutenant's spine even as his words continued. 

"We fight against extinction, oblivion and annihilation. For the Imperium, for our world, and for our families." 

Mitchell stepped up to the firing step, drawing his boltpistol and holding it ramrod straight in front of him, pointing out over the trench's parapet and towards the oncoming horde, just now cresting into clear sight less than 100 metres away. 

"Let's make these fucking xenos regret the day they turned their eyes to ICHAR!" 

Mitchell squeezed his trigger, and with a roar the whole line opened up alongside him. 

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	19. Union's shield

Life's an interesting state of affairs, isn't it? Sorry for the delay. Standard opening remark, as it would seem. I'm working three jobs at the moment, if you include mine, on top of that of the unit chief clerk, and the registry/co-ord. Am I going to get any financial remuneration? Nope. Recognition? Hell no. 

I will get the satisfaction that comes from serving my country. 

Please, no smirks, chuckles or grimaces at my expense. 

Another bomb has gone off in Bali. Why does mankind insist on killing itself? Can't we just get along? 

No. Course not. I'd be out of a job, if we did. 

But, you know what, I could probably live with that, strangely enough. Peace on Earth might be a decent idea. An eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting Gods may make for interesting writing (and reading)… but peace is good. Go peace. 

Of course, I have nothing against the concept of peace through superior firepower. 

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Raziel616: Glad you like the battle scenes. I actually try to avoid them, as anyone can write a halfway decent battle. Of course, having said that, there is one in this chapter. And, as for tech… wait and see… Cheers also for the continuity analyses. I'm not sure if I'll utilise them, but they are a good take. 

Liljimmyurine: It's a counteraction of an intellectual position, not a physical one. But don't get me wrong, violence is a good thing. For what is our purpose, if not to fight in His name? We serve the Emperor, and through him all mankind. 

And what's wrong with trekkies? 

Entilza: High praise, again. Thank you. And maybe :P… there is a plan… vaguely… suggestions are welcome though. 

Hisakatagol: Thank you for liking it. The Deathbringer and Dark Templar ships are in Ichar IV searching for another Dark Templar ship that may have crucial information in its databanks. The bloodshed took place on Ichar IV. The planet is a "hot zone" in the truest sense of the word. 

I just realised how bizarre that first sentence sounds. But hey. Might give someone a laugh. 

Grayangle: Once more, thank you. Compliments such as that from one of the fathers of the genre are very much appreciated. 

I read the Space Marine codex for the first time last week. Noticed that there is a "Captain Lysander" of the Imperial Fists. 

Poo. 

Ah well. Something to remember. And, in all honesty, it's an Imperium of trillions upon trillions of people. There's bound to be a couple of Lysanders around… 

Sithspawn: Now, in fact. Well, not now, but after I finish replying to all you nice people. 

Lennox RH: Desperation makes for interesting writing. And, I hope, interesting reading. And it's the same Earth. Trust me on that. As I think I've said earlier, parallelity is a cop out. It's like writing 'he woke up' as the conclusion to a story. 

Huh: Damn damn. I'm not quite sure what to say in response to "damn"… Sorry :P 

Shimmy: Thank you for the vote of confidence. And well summarised. But you missed a bit. The Imperium doesn't (as a rule) have its unarmoured combat personnel running around wearing mustard yellow or red or blue as camouflage schemes. 

Culexus Assassin: Well put. And in answer to your question… now… 

Warhammer40kFanatic: That was a huge compliment, and thank you. Maybe. Possibly. No guarantees either way. I can't write this genre professionally, as Star Trek is copyright of Paramount Pictures, and of course the immortal Emperor and his minions are owned by GW. Paramount will NOT let me write books, and unless one of the GW heirachy likes my work enough to make an overture, that avenue's looking a little narrow as well. A nice thought, though, and a flattering one. 

Blessings of the Emperor upon you. 

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It quickly became apparent that 'Brother-Captain' Haruman was not the only large person on board the _Sword of Lycurgas_. In fact, it was safe to say that a large portion of what appeared to make up the huge ship's command staff were impressively sized. Not one of them was below seven foot. The appeared human, but humans just did not get that big. The bulky, black-and-grey armour they wore added to the impression, but appeared deceptively light. They moved as if the armour had no weight at all. 

And they did so with total confidence, confidence of a nature that Picard had not seen even in the most arrogant Cardassian. 

Although they didn't come across as arrogant, per se. Just supremely self-confident. And while Picard fully understood the preponderance of ceremonial weaponry in cultures across the galaxy, these soldiers (?) didn't hold their weapons in ceremonial fashion. 

And grenades were not galactic-standard ceremonial weapons. 

The delegation had passed through a temple or church, before arrival at the ready room. The area around the ship's bridge was far, far better finished than the rest of the ship, and, while spartan by Federation standards, certainly didn't resemble the nightmare that was the rest of the ship. Some parts of the ship didn't appear to have been attended to in years. 

The Federation captain didn't know just how right he was. 

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Haruman was finding his guests' apprehension grating. He'd taken them through the ship, expecting them to be overawed. They'd walked more than the length of the Starfleet vessel. The chapel was very large, compared to the dimensions of the smaller ships, and he'd expected them to be intimidated. But not repelled. 

Instead, he'd seen them almost recoil at some of the darker parts of the ship. Literally. The lighting for the access from the bridge to the rarely visited crew quarters was a long way down on the list of repair priorities. 

The crew quarters weren't exactly luxurious… but this was a warship, not a luxury liner. And the crew got double, _double_, the rations specified in the Codex Astartes for ship's bondsmen. Their rations even included real meat, rather than protein supplements. That was almost as good as what the brothers got. Surely this "Federation" couldn't complain at that. Could they? 

Of course they could. They were navy types, Haruman thought as he stepped into his ready-room. Their officers were all overly pampered, lording it over their crew as if they were their own personal property, to be thrown away for the advancement of their careers. 

That the Imperial Navy often _did_ purchase its crews was even more to Haruman's distaste. There was no honour in that. How could a crew be expected to be motivated if it was generally known that once you were press-ganged onto an Imperial vessel, your chances of ever standing on solid ground again were minuscule? 

Of course, he chastised himself, service to the Emperor was its own reward, but humanity was weak. Fallible. Hence the reason behind the Emperor's mercy, and the strength of his guiding fist. Humanity is flawed. But not irredeemable. And the weaker willed need motivation. And if an existence with nothing to gain, and no prospect of advancement, was all that was offered, well, no wonder the navy constantly feared mutiny. 

Of course, there was always the chance to die for the Emperor. That was always there. And even a man who has nothing can still offer his life. 

But, generally, men prefer not to do that dying thing, if they could avoid it. 

Haruman took his position behind the chair at the head of the table, while Bortalus took position on his left and Hensher on his right. Bortalus locked eyes with him briefly. He'd had the same thoughts. Three hundred years of knowing each other had enabled a great deal to be conveyed in a glance. 

The Federation was soft. It might exist in this time, but wouldn't last fifteen minutes in the 41st millennium. Haruman was almost sad for the coming death of idealism. But he hardened his heart. He had responsibilities, to his ship, crew and company. And, of course and above all, to the Emperor and Imperium. 

"Please, sit, gentlemen. And, once again, welcome to the _Sword of Lycurgas_. We thank the Emperor for bringing us together, and hope that he will grant that this meeting prove fruitful." 

Picard and his officers couldn't help but reflect on the references to the Emperor, and wondered as to the depth of meaning. Was it protocol, lip service, or genuinely held religious conviction? The Federation's own protocols held that Picard should be respectful, but non-committal. A stance that came very naturally. 

That these men were human actually made the contact that much more intimidating. 

"On behalf of the Federation, I thank you for your hospitality, and seek to express our hope that this meeting will be beneficial and productive for all parties." 

Haruman nodded. The platitudes had been expected. 

Picard spoke next. 

"Brother-Captain, my crew and I, and our superiors, are very curious about the Imperium. What can you tell us?" 

Haruman hid a grimace behind a smile. This was it. There was no way of sugarcoating this part, not without blatantly lying. And the blatant lying part may compromise any assistance the Federation could give. 

"The Imperium is the Human Empire, -" 

Bortalus noticed several of the Federation officers flinch. Including one with the strange spots running down his hairline. Xeno, perhaps? That'd be interesting. He must remember to have a poke at Hensher afterwards. It was with difficulty that he kept his face in check at the thought of how the stuffy chaplain would react to find out that he'd been sitting next to, and exchanging pleasantries with, a xeno… 

" - presided over by the High Lords of Terra, in the name of the Emperor, who has ruled on the Golden Throne of Earth since the Horus Heresy, ten millennia past. He is the master of mankind, by the force of His will, and ruler of the Imperium by the might of His inexhaustible armies." 

Realisation began to dawn on Picard, as the vagaries of time statements, military population indications, and geography, began to sink in. 

"Countless worlds are governed in His name, and pay their tithes to Earth. A million worlds are held together by the Imperial Navy, and defended on those worlds by the unnumbered soldiers of the Imperial Guard." 

Haruman smiled slightly. He was about to talk about Space Marines. He did like talking about his chapter. He must make a mental note to pray for forgiveness for his pride. Again. 

"And then, of course, there is us. The Adeptus Astartes. Space Marines. Independent armies tasked to the service of His will, and or the interests of the Imperium, as we see fit." 

The penny had well and truly dropped for Picard. And he didn't know what to think. What sort of nightmare was this? What could he do, here, now, to prevent this from coming to pass? SHOULD he even do so? Was the Imperium solely the result of circumstance? And was it derived from good, neutral, or hostile circumstance? How representative of it was the _Sword of Lycurgas_, and its crew? How accurate was Haruman's portrayal? 

And, importantly, how far ahead was their time? At least ten thousand years, from the time he had given. Was this part of a causality loop? If so, what was coming? If not, what sort of catastrophic damage were they doing to the timeline simply by being here? 

To say nothing of the fact that not only had he just broken the Temporal Prime Directive… but by such phenomenally vast amounts that he could barely begin to register the ramifications. Kirk had almost lost his command after breaches of a couple of hundred years. 

Picard had just stumbled into a temporal incident of ten thousand years, plus. 

Temporal Cold War, eat your heart out… 

Which didn't solve the matter at hand. 

Then, it occurred to Picard that he wasn't actually sure what the matter at hand actually was… Or whether, by his hand, anything could be resolved at all. 

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Haruman had seen the realisation cross Picard's features, and stopped talking. His piercing blue eyes bored in on the suddenly preoccupied Federation officer. Startled by his sudden silence, the other marines, and the five other Federation officers, followed his gaze. 

Picard snapped out of his reverie with eight sets of eyes watching him. Smoothing his features to neutral, and putting a very tight rein on his emotional response, he looked right back at the brother-captain. 

"How far ahead?" 

The marine brother-captain internally congratulated himself on his assessment. The man was sharp, even if he was only human. 

Once again, Haruman caught himself. Only human. It was easy to imagine himself, and all marines, as superior. They were bigger, stronger, faster. They lived longer, and often had life experience measured in centuries. But if they forgot their humanity, forgot where they came from, who, and whom, they fought for, and cast aside that humanity that was their birthright, then they became little more than brute beasts for whom death was an unworthy mercy. 

Ten thousand years ago (or twenty eight thousand years in the future, depending on how you looked at it), Warmaster Horus, greatest of the Emperor's generals, and the closest thing he had to a son, forgot that, and in his pride turned his back on humanity. It sealed the Warmaster's destruction, broke the Emperor, both physically and emotionally, and nearly brought about the complete destruction of the greatest empire in the galaxy. Humanity was saved by the narrowest of margins. 

No. Being human was no crime, no failing in itself. He would be wise to remember that. 

"Thirty eight thousand, Captain Picard." 

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Picard felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He had no response. A terrible sense of foreboding settled on him. Realisation had yet to impact upon his staff, and he wasn't quite sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. Thirty eight thousand years. It was little wonder that the ship was so different from the contemporary. 

"I take it that your chrono-arrival is what generated your extremely unusual emergence signature?" 

"As much as we are able to ascertain, yes. We weren't lying when we said that we were lost. As it turns out, we were in exactly the same place as we were in our time, but our astronavigation systems weren't responding properly, because of the difference in time. Your co-ordinates enabled us to calculate the differences…" 

Picard had estimated as much. It was, in actuality, very hard to get lost. Very hard indeed. If you knew what the star date was, you could analyse the stars around you, and the computers could tell you your position with a high degree of precision. 

Of course, if you _didn't_ know the star date… 

"And I take it that you now seek a method to return to your own time?" 

"Yes, Emperor willing." 

Silence reigned again throughout the meeting. The Imperial officers had made their point, and their Federation counterparts didn't know what to say. They had limited experience with subspace phenomena, and that which affected the timeline was conventionally measured in decades. Centuries at most. They were stumped. 

After nearly a minute, Picard spoke again. 

"Brother-Captain, I -we- want to help you. We really do. If only to get this enormous warship of yours away from what genuinely is one of the most politically sensitive areas of the galaxy, and the prying and hostile eyes of other galactic powers that would probably be understandably concerned at so large a human ship materialising out of nowhere. The Romulan ship just out there is probably exceptionally nervous, for example. And we are in no condition to go to war with the Romulans." 

He paused again. 

"This is a long way above us, gentlemen. I will have to refer this to higher comm-" 

As if on cue, Picard's commbadge chimes. 

"_Enterprise to Picard_." 

The interruption is startling. By first contact protocol, all communications to the diplomatic party were held off unless they were crucial. Unless Lieutenant Brennaman had been consuming alcohol, rather than synthehol, again, the implication that this message was important was definitely strong. 

"Picard here." 

"_Captain, we have Admiral Janeway on channel with a CRITIC level message_." 

Picard had been jaded by years in the Federation's service. But a message from the Admiralty bearing starfleet's highest priority code was rare indeed. And his rising eyebrows, pushing up towards where his hairline had once been, signalled his surprise to his hosts. 

"Acknowledged. Stand by." 

He turned his head to once more address his hosts. 

"Brother-Captain, you have my sincere apologies, but this is a message that I must address. Captain Keenan will continue in my stead, and I will inform you of the situation, if possible, as soon as I can." 

He tapped his commbadge again. 

"Picard to Enterprise. One to beam up." 

The azure haze of the transporter took him, and he faded out of existence. 

Captain Keenan watched the older man teleport out. And really wished that he hadn't. 

"So, Captain Keenan, you have heard of the Imperium. Tell us of your Federation." 

_Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm_. Keenan mused to himself. _This is going to be dandy…_

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Captain S'Var of the USS _Odyssey_, in stereotypical Vulcan style, was not a man that habitually made his emotions known. In fact, he did everything within his power to show no emotion at all. Denying emotion was not considered. That he experienced them was self-evident. But to allow them to control his reactions did not stand to reason. 

He was however not alone in his reaction to the wormhole's opening. 

Nor was he alone in reacting when, several hours later, barely twenty minutes after massaging Admiral Janeway that nothing had come out, something DID come out. 

More precisely several somethings. 

A lot of several somethings. 

"Captain, scanners read eighty eight Jem-Hadar ships have emerged from the wormhole. Sixty four appear to be attack ships, twelve cruisers, and two battleships". 

S'Var, his face a stone mask, mentally reeled. They'd win this battle. With even numbers, or close to, the Federation, historically, had defeated every adversary they'd fought, save the Borg. 

But they would take heavy casualties. Hundreds, if not thousands of good Federation officers would die today. And S'Var, as senior officer of the fleet, would feel responsibility for every one of them. It was a Bajoran station, but this was a Federation fleet, and until he heard from Colonel Kira, he would act on his initiative to preserve his command and protect his charge. 

"Operations, bring the fleet to battle stations. Relay our orders through the station. Recommend to the station that they also come to battle stations." 

Across the system, Federation ships stood to. Interior lights went red, and sleeping crewmen bustled out of their quarters. It was three minutes before his operations officer got back to him. 

"All ships report full readiness, sir." 

Seventy five medium to heavy ships, with shields up, phaser arrays fully charged and torpedo bays loaded. Captain S'Var's face, schooled for decades in control, didn't give any hint of the grim relish that he felt at his task. He knew that he shouldn't. He knew that the loss of life was unnecessary, and wasteful. Knew that peace was the most logical course of action. 

But he also knew, in the depths of his katra, that the reason that Vulcans had embraced the principles of peace and logic was because they had violent tendencies that dwarfed that of most species. Vulcans had almost wiped themselves out several times in their long recorded history. Vulcans excelled at warfare. 

And here was another Vulcan about to practice that art. 

"Ensign Howe, transmit a situation report to Starfleet, through Colonel Kira, to Admiral Janeway. Then, hail the Dominion fleet." 

There was a couple of seconds' delay before the officer responded. 

"Channel open, audio only." 

Jem-Hadar ships did not have view screens. Audio was all they'd get, and all they expected. 

"This is Captain S'Var of the USS _Odyssey. _Dominion ships, you have entered Bajoran Territorial Space. This area is off-limits to Dominion vessels by the terms of the armistice. Please state your intentions." 

"This is First Rakseth. Your pathetic ruses will not fool us. There is no armistice, and you know that as well as we do. Victory is Life!" 

There was a few seconds silence, before Ensign Howe commented. 

"They've closed the channel, sir." 

S'Var had expected as such. 

"Tactical, how are they deployed?" 

"Standard crescent, sir, 2-dimensional along the system's ellipse." 

That would be attack ships in the van, with cruisers behind them, and the two battleships in the rear. 

"Have the fleet form up, fleet pattern Rho." 

"Rho, sir?" 

"Yes Ensign. I believe you heard me correctly." 

"Aye sir, sending now." 

Pattern Rho was a two-dimensional echelon left, with the heaviest ships just behind the van. In this case, the _Galaxy_ and _Sovereign_ wings. A risky, heavy-handed strategy. 

The two fleets began to close, and when the Jem-Hadar attack vessels surged forwards, battle was joined. 

Ships swirled through the void, phasers and polaron beams looking for all the world like blades of duelling swordsmen. S'Var watched the melee in a semi-detached fashion, even when his ship shook from a blast to its forward shields. He trusted Helm and Tactical to fight the ship. His task was to fight the fleet. 

"Ensign Howe, instruct wings three, four, nine and ten to detach from the formation, and, on my mark, execute a Picard manoeuvre. Have two wings target each of the two battleships." 

The Picard manoeuvre was a highly risky, very delicate close-range warp jump, reappearing almost point-blank to a target vessel. Named, of course, after the maverick captain who had become a near legend within starfleet ranks. 

The four wings were of _Akira_-class attack ships. The _Akira_-class was a purpose-built warship, and boasted a phenomenal number of torpedo tubes. The most of any starfleet vessel, in fact. And the four wings meant six of the vicious light-heavyweight ships would engage each battleship simultaneously. 

The Jem-Hadar formation engaged the front of the starfleet line, and the lead wave of attack ships broke apart as the _Sovereign _and _Galaxy_ wings opened fire. 

Minutes passed. Minutes which were a long time in fierce ship-to-ship combat. This wasn't the hours-long engagements that had characterised human sea warfare. Here, megatons of firepower could be delivered in seconds, and with a great deal of precision. 

S'Var sat silently aghast, as the _New Orleans_' right nacelle was impaled by a polaron beam, then three more speared through its saucer section. It was another ten seconds before the vessel cracked open like an egg, plasma and bulkheads venting into space. 

Captain S'Var usually ran a very tight ship. But he allowed the small number of outbursts of profanity on the bridge to go unchecked. 

Three Jem-Hadar attack ships opened fire on the _Khitomer_ at point blank range. The ships forward shields collapsed under the withering barrage within the space of four seconds. Before the energy could be diverted to compensate, the three ships rammed the _Galaxy-_class ship. All three attack ships, and the starfleet battle cruiser, were destroyed in the ensuing explosion. 

S'Var watched as three more of the smaller Jem-Hadar ships, moving in a stereotypical 'V' came around the top and back of the Dominion lines, S'Var knew instantly what the trio had planned. And where the Dominion's next blow would fall. 

"Ensign Howe, signal the _King William_. Inform Captain Wardle that in the advent of our destruction, he has fleet command." 

The Vulcan officer watched as the ensign raised his eyes from his LCARS display, and looked at the three closing attack ships. He understood. He responded through lips pursed tight. 

"Aye sir." 

"Tactical, divert emergency power to forward shields." 

The tactical operator diverted power to forward shields, just in time for a fourth and fifth attack ship to come in from the port side and slam a flurry of polaron beams into the ship's bow. 

"Forward shields down to 77 percent." 

Now the Captain was fighting his ship. The fleet had a plan, and could do without him for 30 seconds. 

"Lock phasers on nearest attack ship, moving left to right. Target the aft port quarter, tight focus. Time a salvo of quantum torpedoes to impact the shields at the point of phaser contact." 

Fingers flew across the LCARS panel, as Lieutenant Tester followed the orders that his Captain had given him. 

"Standing by, sir." 

"Fire." 

The _Odyssey_'s torpedo launcher released three glowing white weapons, which sailed towards the back of the attack ships that had just made their run. Moments before they struck, a brilliant red-topaz beam sang from the bow, and punched a hole through the small ship's shields. 

A hole that allowed three quantum torpedoes to slip through. 

The effect was not dissimilar to the hand of a giant child swatting the back of a spaceship toy. The attack ship careened off into space, spinning wildly with the aft portion of the vessel a mangled heap. 

Another wave came in, from above the axis, bearing down on the _Sovereign_-class ship. 

"Phasers, maximum yield, lead ship, target their bridge." 

"Sir." Lieutenant Tester acknowledged, and the single topaz beam lanced up and out, striking the Jem-Hadar vessel, its shields flaring blue for four seconds until they flickered, then died. The beam speared into the ship, and smashed into the bridge. The ship did not, indeed could not, alter course. 

"Torpedo spread, left ship. Re-target phasers, right." 

The Dominion ships open up before the _Odyssey _fired again, another series of blasts rocking the force flag's forward shields. A panel blew out, a shower of sparks driving the occupant out of his seat, and sprawling onto the deck. 

"Forward shields down to 20 percent. Numerous localised shield windows. Hull breaches on…" 

S'Var cut him off. Engineering could handle it. 

"Dispatch repair teams. Transfer power from engines to forward shields." 

He watched as his targeting orders gave results. Two torpedoes smashed into the back of the left attack ship, a third sailing wide. An _Intrepid­-_class pounced, gliding in behind the Jem-Hadar vessel, firing a long sustained phaser blast that sheared off large sections of its rear before the whole thing blew. 

The phasers on the right attack ship were equally devastating, the sustained firepower demonstrating the effectiveness of the _Sovereign-_class very nicely as the last ship of that wing exploded. 

But the Vulcan had made a mistake. As his ship slowed, it told the Dominion starships that either the engines were damaged, or their power was being diverted. Either way, it implied a weakened ship. Which is exactly what the _Odyssey_ was at that time. 

Yet another attack wing came screeching in, this time from behind them. The slower moving target made it that much easier to hit. 

And hit they did, cobalt-blue beams tracing flaring azure lines across the upper surface of the shields. The shields gave out, and the blue lines became black on the armoured hull, boring scorching scars along the metal. 

"Shields are down, sir, engineering is trying to get them back up." 

The three attack ships on direct approach had closed the distance. More weapons fire blasted the reeling ship. 

"Forward phasers out, sir" 

S'Var's face and voice remained calm, belying the knot in his stomach. 

"Torpedoes, full spread, lead ship." 

Four white points blossomed into explosions as they hit the forward shields of the lead. Its shields died. But it kept coming. 

There was a couple of seconds' pause. Enough for the bridge crew to stop what they were doing, and watch as the Jem-Hadar ships made a beeline seemingly straight for the bridge. 

"Transmit to wings three, four, nine and ten. Initiate." 

Howe did not confirm transmission. The bridge was deathly silent. The Captain had heard the signal delivered chime. Time for the last word. 

"Gentlemen, it has been an honour to serve with you." 

The hull of an attack ship filled the view screen. Upon the wings of death the hope of the future flew to the defenders of the Federation. 

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Thousands of voices throughout the fleet gasped in horror as the _Odyssey_ was blotted from existence. On board the _King William_, the last of the three _Sovereign_ class ships, S'Var's message was played to Captain Wardle. The bridge crew all heard it. Captain Wardle felt the weight of the responsibility pressing down on his shoulders as if it was a physical thing. 

The fleet was his. His to control. 

His to protect to the best of his ability. 

The final signal of the _Odyssey_ became apparent when the fleets four _Akira_ wings launched themselves at the Dominion flagships. 

"Tactical, magnify image of the attack on the battleships." 

The timing was superb. Both for the attack and the image enhancement. The magnification centred on the salvo of torpedoes fired from the _Valorous_. Each tube fired three quantum torpedoes. 

The _Valorous_ and its sister ships had seven forward facing torpedo tubes. Each ship thus fired a salvo of twenty-one torpedoes towards the Dominion battleships. 

And at the near point-blank ranges utilised by a Picard manoeuvre, they really couldn't miss. 

A Dominion battleship was big. Approximately twice the size of a _Galaxy_-class vessel. And it was a dedicated warship. So, in essence, it was regarded as about three times the combat power of a _Galaxy._

But when hit by no less than 126 quantum torpedoes within the space of two seconds, the capital ships' shields flickered and died with barely a whimper. In fact, the battleships themselves did a superb rendition of a crumpling tissue paper. 

One of them exploded. The other just… stopped. One salvo from the _Akira_s had destroyed what were, as far as Captain Wardle knew, the two most powerful ships in the quadrant, before they were able to fire a shot. 

The bridge cheered. From despair at the loss of the force flagship, to sudden elation at the battle's swing. 

The energy in the bridge was contagious. The crew moved faster again. And the opposite could be seen of the Dominion. 

Their attack ships were faltering. The fleet's co-ordination had been obliterated in one fell swoop. 

The attack wings had spun around, and struck the Jem-Hadar units from the rear. Unable to turn to allow their shields to regenerate, they were overwhelmed and collapsed. And each ship destroyed meant that much more firepower that could be focussed on the remainder. 

The battle would last another twenty minutes. But the outcome was no longer in doubt. 

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Janeway's day had taken a serious turn for the worst. The Bajoran wormhole, current source of a goodly portion of her most frustrating problems, had opened. And, indeed, was still open. 

But nothing had come out. 

This was the first time that the wormhole had done that, to anyone's knowledge. And the bizarre nature of the event was the straw that broke Starfleet Command out of its impassivity. The warnings by the Bajorans, the grave nature of the threat in question, and, of course, Admiral Janeway's insistence, had finally lead to some decisive action on the part of Starfleet, and ships and crews were being posted out to Deep Space Nine as fast as could be arranged. 

Nearly seventy five ships had met up there, and the station itself was, once again, feverishly attempting to lay minefields across and around the mouth of the wormhole. 

Within three days, another flotilla would have arrived, and the fleet units in that sector would double what Starfleet had fielded against the Borg at Wolf 359. 

But Janeway knew that it still wouldn't be enough. It would take twice that number to present any truly meaningful obstacle to the Dominion's Armada's advance. It would take four times that to have a decent shot at actually stopping it. 

So when a CRITIC priority message from Deep Space Nine's Colonel Kira came flashing across her message board, she took a couple of moments to steady herself before she answered it. Few things shook ships like a shaken Admiral. 

"Colonel Kira. I take it the situation has changed?" 

"It has, Admiral. A Jem-Hadar fleet exited the wormhole, and engaged our units. They have been repulsed, but twenty-eight ships have been lost. I am uploading the casualty figures now. 

The image of the female Bajoran colonel was grim-faced, as it performed actions out of Janeway's view. An icon flashed in the bottom right corner of the display. 

"Message received, Colonel. How did we fair?" 

Janeway tried to ignore how tired her own voice sounded. And tried to ignore how haggard the normally upbeat Bajoran appeared. The Admiral failed at both attempts. 

"We did well, ma'am. Despite the figures, the fleet did a remarkable job. Eighty Jem-Hadar ships, including two battleships, were destroyed. 

Janeway pursed her lips together. Eighty. Not bad in exchange for twenty-eight. Not good enough, but better than could generally be expected. 

"That's an impressive result, losses notwithstanding. Please pass on my congratulations to Captain S'Var." 

Colonel Kira looked down, and Janeway instantly knew what had happened, before the Colonel said it. 

"Captain S'Var is dead, Admiral, along with the entire crew of the _Odyssey_. Captain Wardle of the _King William _has acting fleet command." 

The two officers' heads went down. The naming of Captain S'Var amongst the casualties brought the tragedy into a far more personal light. Janeway had personally briefed the distinguished Vulcan on the situation at Deep Space 9. 

It was another thirty seconds before anyone spoke, and it was Janeway that broke the silence. 

"Anything immediately noteworthy about the attack, save the obvious?" 

Kira nodded, grim. 

"They focussed their fire on the heaviest ships. The _King William_ is the last of the _Sovereign-_class, and we're down to two _Galaxy_s. The _Akira_ wings did well. The station itself is undamaged. But another attack like that and we'll be in serious strife." 

Janeway nodded silently. 

"At least this attack gives me something concrete to use to obtain more reinforcements. Hang on out there, colonel. I'll get you whatever isn't nailed down." 

She paused, then went on. 

"And probably somethings that _are_ nailed down. Or should be…" 

Kira gave a short chuckle in return. 

"Thank you Admiral. We'll do whatever we can. Deep Space Nine out." 

As the channel closed, Janeway put her head on her folded arms, burying her face in the crook of her elbow. Twenty-eight ships. More had just died under her than had died throughout the seven years she had spent in the Delta Quadrant. 

And more of the Jem-Hadar were coming. Of that she was sure. 

She scrolled through the ships that were available. A pitifully short list. Pitifully. And a painful number of them were _Nova_-class ships. They would be good for nothing, save perhaps as ablative armour for the more combat-capable ships. And that would be a criminal waste of perfectly capable starfleet personnel. 

They needed to pull in the heavier ships, and the combat mediums, like the _Intrepids_ that she held so close to her heart. 

Her next PADD entry was to filter through the assignments and taskings of the _Sovereign_-class ships. Starfleet's biggest guns. 

And near the top of the list was NCC-1701-E. 

Negotiating with the largest human-constructed ship the galaxy had seen. 

The young Admiral's mind clicked, and her eyes blazed with new purpose. 

The Federation may have an ace in its sleeve yet. 

She pressed her commbadge, her voice clear once more. 

"Janeway to communications centre." 

"_Communications centre. Go ahead, ma'am_." 

"Send Lieutenant Page here. I have a high clearance signal to send." 

"_Will do, ma'a_m." 

"Thank you. Janeway out." 

Fate may have thrown us a lifeline yet, Janeway thought. She allowed herself to hope. 

Hope. That quintessential refusal of humanity to grasp the totality of a situation that was simultaneously its greatest delusion and its greatest strength. And it was that that allowed Janeway to hope that Picard could convince a group of non-Federation humans to fight for them. 

And make the _Sword of Lycurgas_ a weapon of the Federation. 

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	20. Olympian Coup

First up, many apologies, as is the standard, for the late response. Things have been absolutely maddening over here. Time has been in exceptionally short supply. I will proceed to assuage your fears (or is that quash hopes…) and say that I _will_ finish this, regardless of whether it stops and starts a little. I will not quit. I have a layout of how this is going to run, and run it will. 

Incidentally, any Sydney-based WH40k players up for painting the main part of a Space Marine army? Black primary; grey trim, blood red weaponry. Email me if you are interested, and there is, of course, a cash incentive, which is negotiable. 

Reviews are good. Reviews give me the prod that is encouragement. Without encouragement, my muse gets lonely. 

My muse is also a masochist. Pain makes it feel good, for those that want to stick the boot in. 

Praise the Emperor. He watches over all of us. 

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OblivionKnight 7: I am, as you can see, updating. And hey, better late than never, right? 

Liljimmyurine: Hardcore nerds are unbalanced. Like those that write 50,000 words worth of fanfiction. I mean, how crazy is that? What a monumental waste of time. And write up prayers/sermons to the Emperor? THOSE people scare normal nerds :P 

The Sithspawn: Imperial knowledge of events prior to the "Great Betrayal" is very patchy indeed. This is 38,000 years into their past. Do YOU know what happened on earth 38,000 years ago? I sure as hell don't, and I have a history major. And again, as I said to OblivionKnight7, sorry about the delay. 

Maith: Historically, incidents of daemon possession didn't start to escalate for several millenia. The problem can certainly cross species, as Eldar as certainly susceptible. Also note that Trek canon does have a number of instances of possession notwithstanding… (Gul Dukat and a Pagh Wraith, for example). 

And the Emperor was consciously masking you his presence at the time, as far as I am aware. Someone that knows more than I do feel free to correct me on this. 

Huh: More? I can do that. Faster? sheepish grimace I will try. Explodier. I can probably manage that. 

Grayangle: Father not good for you? What would you prefer? Lord Highmarshal of Terra? I must admit, I'd probably go for that one as well. 'Father' does sound pretty mundane in comparison, doesn't it? 

The Sword of Lycurgas, and the events surrounding it, shall indeed be brought into the Light. As a beacon to follow, an example to humanity, and as a weapon against the darkness. By His will, and in His name. 

Shimmy: The first person to notice my pseudonym's meaning. Or, at least, to mention it. And you're right. Starfleet "security personnel" are not renowned for being superb combatants on the surface. We'll leave _that_ be. 

I did some research prior to this story. The ST "universe", with the exception of the thin line explored by _Voyager_, would all fit into the Segmentum Solar, and a fraction of the closer parts of the Segmentum Pacificus. The Dominion is somewhere to the galactic north of the Segmentum Obscuras. Basically, the Federation has not expanded enough to necessarily encounter many 40k familiar races. chuckle Parallelity is _still_ a cop out. 

Smithklein: I chose the Deathbringer colour scheme as a compromise, of sorts. Acknowledging the apparent disdain for camouflage that seems to exist amongst space marines, I chose not to outfit them in cams, my own military sensibilities not-withstanding. However, their own standard pattern is passable as camouflage in many situations, especially those that Special Forces units find themselves in. Marines are Special Forces, so black is remarkably appropriate. And you are also correct. The marines would know very little about this time. Very little. 

Jaime: Why thank you. That's a big compliment. And an appreciated one. 

Warhammer40k Fanatic: Actually, by definition, you kinda have to wait. Unless you want to pay me. THEN you can be assured of faster updates. But _THEN_ I'd be breaching a whole lot of copyrights. So I guess waiting's the go. But not right now, because right now, there is a new chapter. 

DrkDrake: The Space Marines would help the Federation as a means of defending the future of mankind. No more, no less. If the Federation falls, the Imperium never comes to be. Similar concept to the Borg assault on Earth in 'First Contact'. Just on a larger scale. 

Shimmy again: Fair point. I will re-edit the rating… 

And now, for our main feature… 

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Brother-Centurion Lucinius let the damp earth run through his gauntleted hands. Whether his company had arrived on time was somewhat in doubt. 

As far as Imperial Command were concerned, the Dark Templars had performed spectacularly, arriving exactly where they were required, and holding the line against a major Tyranid assault. 

They hadn't been able to use drop pods. The _Gladius_ was out of drop-pods. Unbelievable but true. They'd been forced to deploy from thunderhawks. It had taken them nearly twenty minutes to get there, rather than the usual five. 

Lucinius stood up, and moved further along the trench wall, the soles of his armoured feet leaving deep prints in the soft ground. 

What command hadn't thought about, not that Lucinius ever really expected them to, was that the reason why the Dark Templars had been on time, rather than late, was that they'd been able to land, force the Tyranids out of the Imperial positions, and then re-occupy them. 

They were able to do that because brave men had chosen to stand and die. And die they had. The marines had arrived in time to see the guard lieutenant go down, a hormagaunt's claw driving through his chest. The lieutenant had fallen backwards, spat at the creature, then shot it point blank with his pistol. The man hadn't been able to get up. Neither had the Tyranid. 

An apothecary had tended to him, and administered the Emperor's mercy. 

_Your sacrifice will be remembered, lieutenant. The fallen shall always be remembered, as the Emperor's finest. For none died for Him that died in vain._

But even as he ran the words through his head, he felt empty inside. The man hadn't sought the Emperor's Mercy. He'd wanted to live. Whether for himself, or something greater. Lucinius had seen it in the man's eyes. He had not gone gently into the night. 

But it had mattered not, and the man was dead. He had fought well. But it had made no difference against the Tyranids. 

But worse still… the 5th Cohort was now pinned in place. There were no troops available to re-occupy this vital position. 

The Dark Templars could not move. 

None of these thoughts could be read on the Brother-Centurion's features, schooled by centuries of discipline. But the thoughts were there. 

The Imperial forces continued to hold, but the hold on the line was tenuous, and the situation was getting worse. The marine reaction force, that had stemmed countless breaches in the failing Imperial line, was out of commission. 

The Tyranids had yet to capitalise on their gains. They'd pushed the two Imperial units on either side of the dug in marines, and the marines had extended their lines to cover the collapsing units on their flanks. 

Now, however, a single depleted marine company was trying to hold the ground that had only tenuously been held by three full strength guard companies with heavy support. 

The Templar 5th was feeling the pinch. 

A pair of black and green thunderhawks roared low overhead, their roar drowning out the distant rumble of the Imperial artillery lines. The Thunderhawks strafed the positions that analysis had predicted the Tyranids would mass in. The booms of their battlecannons and the crackling bark of heavy bolters signalled the onset. 

Two points dropped from each gunship, and the area to the immediate Templar front was bathed in cleansing fire. How poetic. 

_With the flames of His wrath we will cleanse the impure. _

It looked like the Thunderhawks had stirred the pot. The Tyranids were on the move again. 

Lucinius jumped down to the trench. He mumbled his prayers to himself as he checked his bolter, and cocked the weapon, bringing it from 'loaded' to 'action' condition. 

More of the six-limbed monstrosities emerged from the promethium fires. They didn't get far before they were burnt to a crisp. Though charred, bloody and often either melting or missing limbs, they kept moving towards the marine lines until they stopped twitching. 

_With the holy arms of our order we will stand against all that oppose the Emperor._

The Devastators opened up, missile launchers and heavy bolters blazing at the Great Devourer's line, driving wedges through the oncoming wave. The roar was music to the veteran's ears, a dirge of death, and a prayer to the Emperor as surely as any battle hymn. 

_We chastise the unholy with the sacred bolt._

Lucinius raised his bolter above the parapet. The first of the monstrosities was at less than two hundred. He couldn't miss. 

When doing basic training, inductees are taught drill. Pointless in combat, in and of itself, but it has its uses. Discipline and control, for one. 

When giving a drill command, there are three parts to the order. The prefix, where the unit or individual is informed that they are the one/s being addressed. The cautionary, which tells the addressed party what it should be doing. And the executive. That tells them when to do it. 

Lucinius tensed his index finger on the trigger of his bolter, centred his targeting reticle on a genestealer's chest, and gave the executive. 

"Fire." 

Across nearly two kilometres of defensive works, a company of marines opened up with their bolters at optimum range. 

The Tyranid line looked like it was hit by a sledgehammer. Monstrosities reeled backwards as the marines continued to blaze away. Tongues of fire reaching out to bring the Emperor's judgement to the alien filth that stained what was His. The fire wasn't enough though, and the Tyranids were closing fast. 

Very fast. 

The marines only had eighteen seconds of firing before the Tyranids covered the 200 metres of broken ground to the slit trenches. Lucinius was in the vanguard. 

His bolter ran dry just as the first hormagaunt leapt towards him, claws extended and fanged mouth held wide. 

Muttering an apology to its machine spirit, he jammed the bolter into its open maw. The creature barely had time to register the strange turn of events, a puzzled expression looking decidedly out of place before it was cut in half by Lucinius drawing his powersword through its torso, as he gave voice to the Dark Templars' age old battle cry. 

"FOR ALL MANKIND!" 

With a roar, the warcry was taken up along the line, as the company's two squads of assault troops roared in on jump packs, straight into the embattled trench lines. Lucinius smiled grimly. Purple blood would run deep this day. 

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The Imperial fleet loitering on the edges of the Ichar system was a sizeable one. Including (and flagged by) the _Retribution_-class battleship _Divine Right_, there were about thirty medium to heavy ships. A lot of firepower. 

And the addition of the _Twilight's Hammer_ escort group, along with the two marine strike cruisers, had made Admiral Antigonos a happy, happy man. 

It occasionally dawned on the career naval officer just how much firepower he had at his command. By his whim, or as he put it, 'decision', worlds were scoured and suns died. 

But those occasions when it occurred to him were few and far between. He drove ships and commanded fleets, as the High Lords of Terra or Master of the Fleet commanded. 

He bore no thought to the countless men that crewed his ships. He knew their captains, and some of their senior officers. Some of those men's service histories, even. 

He had to maintain his distance. That's what he told himself, anyway. Had to retain his objectivity. His ships were very old, very valuable pieces of equipment. Scarce, precious resources, especially when compared to the men that crewed them. 

His ships were all that stood between the billions of people on the Imperial world he could just make out through his stateroom's viewport, and a painful, terrifying death at the hands of the Tyranid Hive Fleet. 

Upon the strength of that logic Antigonos built detachment from his subordinates. His ships had thousands of crew. They all had needs, wants, hopes and dreams. 

But the Admiral, and by extension the Imperial Navy and wider Imperium, could hardly have cared less. 

Nor did he care about the millions of Imperial Guardsmen dying on the surface. That's what their purpose was, after all, to die for the Emperor. But he did care that they were dying faster than they could be replaced. That would be unpleasant for all concerned. 

So he'd sent the _Twilight Hammer_ to go and get more. Which they had. And brought back in one piece. Or, close to, anyway. Near enough. Million men, here or there. 

The problem was, they couldn't get them to the planet. The Tyranid fleet had pushed them back enough that the Imperial forces weren't able to commence the large-scale fleet to surface operations necessary to offload that many troops. 

They couldn't bombard. They couldn't force the Tyranids away from the planet. They couldn't land more troops. 

They weren't looking too good. 

Much as he hated to admit it, the Imperium was unlikely to be able to brute-force its way through this situation. 

But THAT thought, almost by definition, put the appropriate response beyond the capabilities of the Imperial Navy. 

Without preamble, he barked orders to his bridge crew. 

"I want all senior captains to my ready room in twenty minutes. And 'invite' – (the Admiral almost spat) - the Space Marine commanders. Twenty minutes." 

He spun, and stalked off to his plush stateroom. Its relaxing surrounds were crucial for maintaining his mental wellbeing and keeping him well rested, upon which the safety of the fleet depended. 

He went to find some port. 

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Revinius watched the comm sputter out a signal from the _Divine Right_. It informed him –and Lysander, he noticed- that they were _invited_ to attend a conference on board the flagship about proposed courses of action. 

Invited was the euphemism. The signal had practically demanded their attendance. 

Arrogant bastard. Any brother marine on either of the two strike cruisers was the man's senior. 

But, he was Imperial Navy. Humility was not their strong point. 

Nor, for that matter, was it a space marine's strong point. 

And the fate of billions hung in the balance. Revinius wouldn't let them die because of an insult to his pride. 

And he sincerely doubted that Lysander would allow his pride to dictate his actions. At least Revinius could count on one friendly face. 

Revinius scowled again. Bloody navy. 

"My thunderhawk or yours?" 

Revinius jumped in his seat. Only the Deathbringers somehow managed to move three hundred pounds of power armour and not make a sound. And only one would phrase the question like that. 

"You've brought yours, so we may as well take it. Get the Admiral's message?" 

"Navy". 

Revinius chuckled. The similarities of thought patterns were slightly disconcerting. 

"He is a self-important bastard isn't he?" Revinius asked, standing as he did so. 

"Very. But then, he does look a little like someone pushed a crozius arcanum somewhere that really isn't supposed to hold a crozius arcanum." 

Revinius laughed again, as Lysander spoke into his comm system. 

"Lysander to Herald 12. Prep the bird for departure. Conference onboard the _Divine Right_, over" 

"_Herald 12 acknowledges, Brother-Captain"._

"Copy that. Out." 

Revinius raised an eyebrow. 

"Herald?" 

Lysander cocked his head and looked at his friend. 

"What do you mean?" 

"Herald, brother. You called the thunderhawk 'Herald'. What's the background behind that?" 

"Ah." 

The Deathbringer captain gave the question a couple of seconds thought, before answering. 

"We're the Deathbringers. That's a fairly central theme in our nomenclature. And our drop pods and aircraft, especially thunderhawks, announce our arrival. Hence, 'Heralds'. Why do you ask?" 

"Because it seemed odd that in all the years we've fought together, I've never heard any reference to them before." 

"Have you ever boarded one of my thunderhawks from one of your strike cruisers enroute to a conference on an Imperial ship?" 

Revinius waited a couple of seconds before responding. 

"Touche". 

Lysander smirked. If the situation wasn't so grim, he'd almost be enjoying himself. Serving Him was always, _always_ satisfying, but more so at some times than others. 

Working alongside Revinius was one of the latter. The man was one of remarkably few space marines with a sense of humour. 

What was the point of living for hundreds of years if you couldn't enjoy it? 

Yes, fighting for the Emperor was a serious task. None knew that better than a space marine. Yes there were always losses. That was part of what it was to be a space marine. But to lose one's perspective on what you were defending… that was a path that risked madness, despair, or wanton pride. 

And if all it took to avoid losing one's soul to eternal damnation was the occasional laugh with one of the few other marine chapters that weren't so focused on their gravity and piety to notice the black humour which abounded, then so be it. 

Although, admittedly, most of the jokes got pretty old after a century or two. 

But he still found the Imperial Navy to be a damnably funny joke. 

The two marine officers walked up the access ramp of the big gunship, and it whirred as it closed behind them. 

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Antigonos quite liked meetings. They reassured him of his important role in doing the Emperor's work. And here he was, chairing another. On board his magnificent flagship, no less. Here they were. Important men all. Masters of their ships, and they were, in turn, his to command, as he decreed. 

He liked meetings. 

But he didn't like space marines. So high and mighty. So wilful and independent. As if their pathetic little armies, or glorified interstellar patrol boats could hold up for a moment without the support of the Imperial Navy. And so Emperor-damned full of themselves. 

And now, two of the muscle-bound morons were holding up a naval meeting. HIS meeting. 

By the time the two marine officers arrived, spot on time but ten minutes later than Antigonos had hoped for, the Imperial admiral was seething. That the two marines came in chuckling, and that they were both easily a foot and a half taller than him, didn't make him any happier. 

"So glad you could join us, Captains." 

"Always willing to serve the Emperor, Admiral." 

Lysander's delivery was deadpan. But no one in the room missed the mild censure. The temperature in the room dropped several degrees as the two power-armoured marines sat down. Their attempt to squeeze into the seemingly narrow chairs would have been laughable, had it not highlighted to the navy personnel just how big they actually were. 

"Well then, lets us begin." 

Antigonos took a deep breath, then began the briefing. 

"I have been in contact with what passes for a high command on the planet. The situation on the planet is grim, at best. But then, you know what the guard and PDF are like. Gung-ho glory-hounds. But unfortunately, there are a great deal more Tyranids than the Ichar IV PDF is able to contain. 

He flicked a switch, and a projection of the planet came up, rotating slowly, a series of green lines coalescing into an orb. Colours filled in the pattern, and then solidified, presenting a startlingly clear holographic representation of Ichar IV. In real time. 

"The planet is dominated by a single continent, which occupies roughly 70 percent of the planet's surface. For a number of months, the line of control ran north-south down the continent, in large part following the river systems." 

The image changed to a flat projection, showing the largest continent. A red shading indicated the Tyranid controlled area, blue for Imperial. Yellow spots appeared to denote hive clusters. 

"That situation had been contained for quite some time. Several fleet elements had arrived, and were preparing to utilise large-scale orbital bombardment to assist the guard in driving the Tyranids back. Three hives were under siege, and the genetic matter within them would easily be enough to fuel a complete Tyranid landslide on the planet, if they fell." 

The silhouettes of four Imperial warships were shown on the bottom right hand corner of the projection. If Lysander's memory was correct, two _Cobras_, a _Dauntless_ and a _Gothic_. 

"But before the fleet could move, the Tyranids did. Simultaneous to numerous ground attacks, and more importantly, the Hive fleets made their first large scale incursion for several years. Upwards of sixty medium to heavy bio-ships dropped out of the warp into the system, and pushed us to where we are now, out system. We have fought several large engagements, coming off better than they, but not by much. Xeno vermin." 

He slugged back a shot glass of something, and Lysander and Revinius exchanged a look. Only the navy. 

"We have managed, in conjunction with ground based defences, to prevent them from flooding the unoccupied areas with more ground units. But even that is starting to stretch us beyond our capacity. There are too many Tyranid units. We have to consider our options." 

The words were chilling. "Options" in the Imperial context could often be… forceful. Revinius spoke up next. 

"We cannot let the planet fall to the Tyranids. We have, so far, managed to contain the onslaught here in the east. If Ichar falls, there will be enough genetic matter to fuel their attacks all over again. The lines couldn't handle that." 

"Thank you for your stellar insight, marine. When I want your input, I'll ask for it." 

Revinius went purple. Lysander responded. 

"Admiral Antigonos, Brother-Centurion Revinius and myself are here by your direct invitation, and by the necessities of our presence as senior commanders of our vessels. Please show some of the respect due to fellow servants of the Emperor." 

Antigonos ground his teeth, and Captain Rothman, of the _Unbending_, ventured his opinion. 

"The simplest option, of course, is to scour the planet by orbital bombardment. That would certainly stop the Tyranids from assimilating their genetic matter." 

There was muted laughter from the naval officers, including the Admiral. A couple of the others, including Captain Colefax of the _Twilight Hammer_ looked uneasy. 

Chief amongst the latter was Brother-Captain Lysander. He was aghast. 

"Lord Admiral, there are over 22 billion people on that planet. To say nothing of immense Imperial industrial resources." 

Antigonos' gaze was positively venomous. 

"Thank you, Brother-Captain. 22 billion people who without intervention are going to be EATEN by the Tyranids. I'll have you know that…" 

Lysander counted backwards from a hundred, while the Imperial Admiral told the assembled personnel what his opinions of space marines were. Lysander then forward back up to one hundred. And back a second time. The he internally recited to himself the litany of calm. He finished shortly after Antigonos did, just in time to shoot out an arm to hold Revinius in place on his seat. The two marines locked eyes once more. 

Revinius was steaming. This _whelp_ had just insulted two marine chapters,nay, the entire adeptus astartes, in the space of one minute. And Lysander was letting him be. If the Admiral had any true appreciation of just how close to death he had come… but he had none, and was still speaking. 

"… so we must come to a conclusion quickly. The resources here are needed elsewhere." 

Colefax spoke up. 

"Sir, I am not sure that we would b able to scour the planet. The Hive Fleets are keeping us from the planet." 

Rothman concurred. 

"He's right, sir. We could probably do it, but we'd sustain heavy losses." 

"Would they be more than we are sustaining from our constant running battles with their fleets? Or more than would be lost to the wider Imperium should the planet fall to the Devourer? No, it must end here. We must defeat the Tyranids, or destroy the planet. There are no other options." 

Antigonos' words echoed through the command chambers. All present, including the two marines, knew that he was right, however painful that admission might be. Ichar IV could not fall to the Tyranids under any circumstances. _THAT_ could well spell the doom of the Imperium. The first crack in the dam wall, so to speak. That crack would be plugged, but it would be like the little Ryzan boy with his finger in the dyke. A state of affairs that would only last for so long. 

And much as Lysander hated to admit it, better to lose a planet of 22 billion souls than to have the Imperium, the bastion of mankind, collapse. 

Antigonos turned his eye to Commander Ticarius, master of the super-heavy transport ship _Helm of Gustloff_. 

"Commander Ticarius, can you land your vessels in the face of opposition?" 

The burden of answering that question truthfully was evident on the young commander's face. The short answer was that there was no way in hell the barely armed transport would land in any way conducive to the health of the men that his ship was transporting. It was remarkably hard to land the ship in the best of circumstances... the thing was bigger than most of the Imperial Hive cities dotted throughout the galaxy. But commanders don't often say 'no' to admirals. 

"No." 

Antigonos looked like he had just been slapped. 

"No? That's it? Just 'no'?" 

"I'm sorry sir. I meant to say 'no, sir', sir." 

Lysander stifled a smirk. The commander stank of fear, but was hiding it well. And what was it with the damn Imperial insistence on making fear such an intrinsic part of their command structure? 

"So, that means' – Antigonos went on – 'that you can't, or won't land your vessel? One tells me you are incompetent, the other, that you are a coward or a traitor. Which is it?" 

Commander Ticarius went from meek to seething in an instant. All knew the fate of incompetents, traitors and cowards. 

"Sir, with all due respect, my ship and its crew would not survive an attempted landing in the face of Tyranid opposition like that. And what's the point of bringing a transport ship to the surface, if not to disgorge its crew? I can get the ship there, but landing a ship, as I'm sure you know, sir' – he almost spat – 'is a delicate operation. Done under fire from an opposing fleet would all but guarantee the _Gustloff_'s destruction. What use are 16 million dead imperial guard, sir?" 

Lysander's hand strayed towards the plasma pistol at his right thigh. Ticarius seemed like a good officer, and it would be in keping with what Lysander had seen of Antigonos for the Imperial admiral to take out his frustration on the younger officer. 

But he had changed his course. 

"We can't drive the Tyranids off long enough to land troops. We haven't enough troops to drive them back on the ground, or hold what ground we have. We cannot withdraw, or they take the planet. Tell me gentlemen, what options if any do we have, save exterminatus?" 

Colefax, as Lysander expected, answered the admiral. 

"Sir, if we can't push the Hive fleets back, then how can we be certain to clear the planet?" 

Antigonos' smile turned dark. 

"We can't, Captain Colefax. But if all ships make a simultaneous run at the planet, the Tyranids will be unable to destroy enough of us to prevent us from destroying the majority of the planet's viable genetic matter. Or at least, enough of it to make its loss less damaging to the Imperium." 

The temperature in the room had just dropped several degrees. Colefax frantically tried to come up with another plan. ANY other plan. Anything at all. There were 22 billion innocent people on that world, and Colefax did not want that many deaths on his conscience. 

And what madness was this? Imperial officers debating how much damage they'd cause to an _Imperial_ world before they were wiped out. 

"Sir, are you sure that's the only option? That's a very valuable imperial world, and maybe we should take some more time to…" 

"Time!" Antigonos snapped. "Time? Tell me, Captain, how much time do you think we have? The theatre reserves have been pinned in place. Ammunition is stretched. Morale is at an all-time low. Tyranid assaults are driving the line back everywhere, excepting where the marines are dug in." 

The man's fingers flew over an input console, and the diagram of Ichar IV. The line, a real-time uplink from the Imperial command headquarters in Lomas, was moving. The Admiral's guess had been right. The Tyranid push had started in the north. Several regiments of Icharian PDF Reserves had collapsed, and Tyranid unit icons were streaming across the river, and through the hole in the Imperial lines. 

"Time, as you can see, is something we don't have. We move now. Captain Rothman. I want you to lead your battlegroup…" 

Lysander interrupted him. 

"Admiral, if the planet is already lost, as you say, then taking another 45 minutes to discuss how best to deny it to the Tyranids is surely acceptable. What matter that we destroy it now or in 45 minutes time?" 

Antigonos looked up at the marine. The overgrown, armour-clad upstart had dared to question his decision. Again. But the marine was bigger than him. And armed. 

"Brother-Captain, in that forty-five minutes, the Hive Fleet could, no, would move on us, and then the option will be taken out of our hands." 

"There are other options, Admiral." 

"No longer. The guard line has been breached. The Tyranids will overrun them. The planet is lost." 

Lysander was becoming increasingly concerned. There was a way for the Imperium to yet hold Ichar, gamble though it was. The Admiral was panicking. The marine spoke again, the very image of calm and tolerance. 

"Admiral Antigonos, that planet is a valuable imperial resource. A lynchpin of this sector. Without it's industry, resources throughout this area of space would be seriously depleted. We need to be certain we have exhausted all options." 

Antigonos' voice began to get louder, as he almost spat out his response across the conference table. 

"We have exhausted all options, captain, just you're too blind to see it or too stubborn to accept it." 

"Admiral, there are ways around this situation, if you will just let me explain what they are." 

The fury was vividly apparent across the slightly plump admiral's features. 

"No, _captain_, we do not have the time, or the resources, and I will NOT HAVE YOU UNDERMINE MY AUTHORITY!" 

Lysander began to speak loudly back, lips pursed tight and eyes aflame. 

"There are 22 **_billion_ **imperial subjects on that world, Lord Admiral, and we can save them. Or if not THEN WE AT LEAST OWE IT TO THE M TO TRY." 

"They might be still breathing, but they ARE ALREADY DEAD." 

Lysander rose with a speed that belied the enormous weight of his armour, and hissed back to the admiral, voice tight with rage. 

"I will not stand by and watch another world die." 

The Admiral sneered back, leaning forward with his hands on the plasteel conference table. 

"It's not your call to make, marine. I am in charge here. I control these ships.' His voice began to rise again. 'Me. Not you, me. I am an Admiral, you are not, I command this fleet, and you don't. The fate of that world is in my hands, not yours. Sit down, shut up, and let me fight my Emperor-damned war. I have made my decision, and I will not waiver. Especially not because some BONE-HEAD OF A SPACE MARINE IS GETTING SENTIMENTAL ABOUT A BUNCH OF HIVE-SCUM AND RIFF-RAFF." 

In one fluid motion, Lysander drew his pistol, pointed it at the Admiral, and fired. 

The blast of superheated, blue-hot plasma impacted with the man's chest. There was no blood, the scorching heat cauterising the wound virtually as soon as it was caused. Antigonos stopped talking, and looked at the scorching hole in his chest. He fell backwards, knocking over his chair as he did so. 

Lysander walked around the table of stunned, silent Imperial officers, whose eyes all tracked his every move. He reached the downed Admiral, who was looking up at the marine with terror in his eyes as his ruined lungs tried to muster enough air for him to speak, past the bubbling blood pooling in his chest. 

Lysander pointed his pistol at the man, almost casually, and fired two more shots. The Admiral stopped moving. Steam rose from the body at the three holes in his chest. 

The marine officer turned around as he re-holstered his weapon, and addressed the navy captains that were still seated around the conference table. His eyes bored into each of them in turn, measuring them up against what he was about to say. 

He paused. And then, when he spoke, his words were slow and deliberate. 

"I am Brother-Captain Richard Lysander, commanding officer of the 2nd Company, 892nd Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, and I am now in command of this operation."


	21. Thoughts of eternity amok

Liljimmyurine: Perhaps. But I always think of plasma weapons as armour piercing. As in, they slide through the armour as if it virtually wasn't there. I figured it'd have a similar effect on a chest. shrug No big either way. I'll remember that though… And also, ta for the mouthful point… I tend to write in a similar fashion to the way I speak. Which tends to ramble a bit. Cheers for bringing my attention to it.   
I am not a grunt. I try to utilise my brain. At least, as a general rule… 

Grayangle: The Admiral was indeed a disgrace. But we have seen many instances of high ranking Imperial persons that hold the rank by dubious means, on even more dubious credentials. And people should quiver in fear if the title was Father, with that all important capital "f". He's a fairly juiced up guy. Here is said experience of my all powerful art.   
Ok, ok. I just uploaded another chapter. But I write. Allow me the satisfaction that is the not-so-occasional blowing of my own horn. 

The Sithspawn: Aye. I like to think so. Marines don't usually stand for being ridiculed like that. Antigonos didn't end up standing for it, either, as it happens. And here we are, with a sooner update. Which, as it happens, does in fact deal with Picard. 

Jaime: Cheers for the enthusiasm. Like I said to Sithspawn, the guy deserved it. Although I reckon that in the WH40k universe, an Admiral would say, for the most part, anything he damn well pleased, so long as it didn't attack the Emperor, Imperium or Inquisition. He runs the ships. The ships have the big guns. And the Imperial Navy's officers are Lords in their own right. I reckon he probably would dare.   
Although saying it to an armed space marine? Not the greatest idea. 

Somos: Longer marine fight scenes? Coming up then. 

Da5id: I have no knowledge whatsoever about Babylon 5. None at all. Zip. Nada. Nicht. Zero. Zilch. Squat. Sorry. I doubt there'll be any Babylon 5 work coming from me… 

Everyone: Thank you for all the reviewing. As I've mentioned before, it's CPR to my muse. And, to be frank, it's needed at the moment. Life gets hectic. Stuff happens. The boost is actually more appreciated than probably appears… But hey. Tuck in, and may the Lord of Mankind be with you all. 

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Picard looked at Janeway. Janeway looked right back at him. 

The silence stretched. 

It was eventually Picard that broke it. 

"Admiral, this would not only be in direct violation of the Prime Directive, but in gross breach of diplomatic precedent. We have encountered this 'Imperium' for the first time, whatever the circumstances might be, and the first thing that we ask of them is to come and fight our war." 

Janeway looked abashed briefly, before steeling up once again. 

"Jean-Luc, I understand that it is asking a lot of you…" 

"Admiral, it's not asking _me_ that poses the problem. You can ask me whatever you please. The problem will be convincing Brother-Captain Haruman. And the issue as to whether we _should_ get them to intervene. If we have a prime directive, then they might also, and in this case it'd be violating both that _and_ the temporal version." 

Janeway nodded. 

"That's true, captain, but we probably don't have much by way of choice. Either way, we need the _Enterprise_ to head over to DS9 as soon as possible. And by that, I mean as soon as you've ascertained whether or not the _Sword_ will help. If it doesn't, then we'll need you all the more." 

She paused, and looked thoughtful, before continuing. 

"Tell me about them, Jean-Luc, what are your first impressions?" 

Picard released a breath as he sat up in his chair. 

"They are soldiers, Admiral. But more than soldiers. They are warriors, and have the stereotypical warrior ethic to match. They are, as you'd expect of a warship crew, highly militarised, but it goes further than that. Warfare seems to almost be a religion for them." 

He looked her square in the eye. 

"And that ship of theirs _is_ 18 kilometres long, Admiral." 

Picard watched as the Admiral's pained smile turned eager, almost feral. 

"Yes, Captain, you mentioned in your preliminary report. As well as pointing out interesting facts like its projected shield strength. And that is exactly why I want you to do everything in your power to get it to help us." 

The young Admiral leant forward. 

"Captain, we're going to be fighting literally hundreds of Dominion warships. Hundreds, Jean-Luc. That ship, that _human_ ship, could be the only thing that stands between the Federation and its destruction. Do whatever you can. We need that ship. Heck, we need any ships." 

She met his gaze, her eyes turning steely. 

"Any way possible, Jean-Luc. We need help. From anywhere you can get it. Janeway out." 

The harried image of the Admiral was replaced by the Federation logo as the channel was cut. Picard remained in his chair, wondering how he was going manage this. 

Picard often thought thoughts very like this one. He was often in positions where there appeared to be no avenue for success. But, in what appeared to be the vast majority of cases, he'd pulled through. Him and his crew. The _Enterprise_. 

There was something about that name. Something about the ships that bore it, that made them all special. Not one vessel carrying that proud name had failed to leave its mark upon the Federation, and the quadrant. The Romulan Wars. Narendra III. The Klingon Succession. 

History would never forget the name 'Enterprise'. 

But now he was called to pull yet another rabbit out of the hat that admittedly seemed to breed them. As significant a combatant as the _Sovereign _class _Enterprise-E _was, it was a pimple next to the _Sword of Lycurgas._

He and his ship would contribute far more to the Federation by dragging the Imperial vessel to DS9 with them, rather than appearing alone. 

But what could he offer the gigantic vessel to convince Haruman to fight alongside Starfleet? 

88888888888888888888888888888888888 

Captain Keenan was struggling. He and everyone else knew it. But, he had a valid excuse. 

He was in a first contact with _humans_. He was a human. He knew humans. He lived, worked, socialised, and had sex, with humans. He didn't engage in first contact with his own bloody species. 

Yet, here he was, doing just that. 

And the people from this 'Imperium' were so different as to be almost alien. Their speech was different. Their accent was unrecognisable, not that Keenan thought it should be. They were a little caustic, and were so at ease, though not informal, that the starfleet officer found them curiously intimidating. 

Of course, the fact that they were a foot taller than him, at the very least, and twice as broad across the shoulders, didn't make him feel any more secure. And that armour. Keenan was also pretty sure that his phaser might as well be a flashlight for all the good it would do to it, and figured that it would weigh at least a hundred and fifty kilos. 

They moved like it wasn't there. 

They weren't explorers. They weren't scientists. They had no social activities worthy of the name. No families, save each other. No hobbies. 

Just training. 'Battle-brothers'. Religious rites to their 'Emperor'. Combat. So much combat. 

They were trying to be civil. They _were _being civil. The atmosphere was cordial, if more than a little strange. But the marines had nothing to talk about. Not really. They made references to the beauty of the sunsets from the Reclusiam on Lycurgas, their homeworld. To the gratitude that came from the Imperial citizens when they fought for them. The splendours of the cathedral world of Ophelia VII. 

But the Federation officers saw right through it. The two cultures had precious little in common. 

And there was very little that _could_ be exchanged. There was a marked temporal difference. Things had broken down to reminiscing and war stories. Paradoxically, the huge difference in time meant that war stories would actually be safe. Their experience was too far apart to be a risk. 

The similarity in some of the references was painful. What do you say to a man that tells you that, barely six months ago, he lost a brother of two hundred years? Tales of boarding actions. Ship-to-ship combat in an asteroid field. Orbital insertions. 

He allowed himself the healthy measure of scepticism always required when listening to someone else's war stories. But even when the usual 'divide the number of enemy by four' rule was applied, the accounts were impressive. 

As was their motivation. Centuries of fighting, for humanity and their 'Emperor', without pause. 

There are many old soldiers. Many bold soldiers. But precious few old AND bold soldiers. 

These ones were very old, and very bold. He guessed that those hundred and fifty kilos of armour had up sides. 

Both sides were stalling, until Picard returned. And Keenan was sure that when he did, things would change… no one interrupted a diplomatic meeting without a damn good reason. And Janeway was a smart woman. Whatever happened, she wouldn't be wasting their time. 

But Keenan felt so far out of his depth that he thought he was wasting his own time. 

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Bortalus was finding the situation almost funny. No, scratch that, there was no almost about it. The young navy captain temporarily in control of the Federation delegation was radiating his discomfort. Positively radiating it. He would have bet that even non-psykers would be able to pick up at least some of it. 

He found non-psykers a constantly interesting conundrum. He imagined he saw them the way they saw the blind. They perceived much, but missed so much of the nuance. There was, quite literally, a whole universe that they didn't see, had no concept of, and yet he wondered how they could live without. 

But then, he'd now spent centuries as a psyker. He saw things differently. 

And being a psyker could sometimes be soooooooo amusing. People just didn't know that you were watching them. They couldn't. You looked human, so, by and large, they treated you as such. They were aware of the fact that you were a psyker, but so long as you didn't rub that fact in their faces, they didn't really think about it. 

But being a psyker cultivated a certain distance between you and those around you. You felt yourself almost to be watching them. Apart from them. And, if not careful, above them. 

That way lay the path to damnation. 

Laughing at them was easier, and more fun… 

But, at the moment, wasn't quite offsetting a sense of unease that was lingering at the edge of his awareness. His gifts were trying to tell him something. Something was coming. Not to here. But to somewhere close. And soon. 

He would have to cast the Emperor's Tarot. 

Again. 

He really didn't like doing it. If it predicted hardship, as it often did, then they'd have to be prepared, but the tarot being accurate, hardship would come anyway. A prediction of hardship was almost always a guarantee that their efforts would not be 100 percent successful. 

He moved forward, and spoke into Haruman's left ear. 

"Brother, my mind-sight is whispering to me." 

Bortalus felt rather than saw the brother-captain's eyebrow rise, but Haruman didn't move. He spoke back to the Librarian from the corner of his mouth. 

"What is the Emperor telling you, brother." 

"I'm not sure. I want to go to my sanctuary, and cast the Emperor's Tarot. Might shed some light on it." 

"Go on then, brother. I doubt these people will object." 

Haruman and Bortalus glanced at the Federation officers in time to hear them burst out laughing at a story that Chaplain Hensher had just told. Bortalus chuckled to himself. THAT was going to be funny to bring up later. 

But Haruman had heard the chuckle. 

"What is it, brother? He's made all of us laugh before…" 

Bortalus grinned as he whispered his answer. 

"That's not it, Ed. That man, with the spots running down his neck, over there, the one talking now…" 

Commander T'Marid, was sitting down, leaning slightly towards the chaplain, and telling an expressive story, which came complete with vigorous hand movements and strange noises. The Federation officer's comrades appeared interested to, and were themselves leaning closer. 

"Yes, what about him?" 

A couple of seconds later, the trill came to a dramatic conclusion, and all present laughed to varying degrees, Hensher amongst them. 

"He's a xeno." 

Haruman blanched, and his eyes bulged, then he looked at the old Chaplain, and chuckled as well. 

"Go throw your cards around, witch-man." 

Bortalus clamped a gauntlet down on Haruman's left pauldron, then spun 180 degrees and walked out of the ready-room. 

Haruman shook his head to himself. Psykers. 

Then he looked back at the scene before him. 

Chaplains… 

888888888888888888888888888888 

Bortalus' sanctuary was small, spartan, and candle-lit. 

Candle-lit. Not candles-lit. There was one candle. Sitting in the centre of the room, set in an unpatterned ceramic bowl, on a small wooden table. It was one of very few luxuries that Bortalus allowed himself. Earth wood. It was hard to get anything more psychically conducive than wood from ancient terra. And this wood was _old_. In fact, it was just about petrified. This single, simple, square four-legged pine table, less than 50 centimetres across and about the same high, pre-dated the Imperium. More than that, as much as he was able to tell through his scrying, this little piece of Terra was created before the Great Crusade. Before the Dark Age of Technology. 

In fact, as Bortalus thought about it, this very table was probably, even now, in the time they were currently in, sitting somewhere on Earth, being used as a footstool or beverage table. 

The thought gave the old librarian pause. So much of what they had had been lost, and so much found anew. What had been cast off, discarded or ignored was now hallowed, and what had been sacred and regarded was now scorned. 

The Federation's warships, the pinnacle of their technology, mighty vessels able to destroy planets. 

The Imperium had never even heard of the Federation. 

But this little table had reached the 41st millennium. And, alone, was considered valuable enough to buy planets. This was a holy relic, a sacred item for which wars had been fought, and for which thousands had died. It was a repository of psychic power of unimaginable potency, and almost a sentient being in its own right. It had watched empires rise and fall. Dynasties come and go. Forty millennia of galactic history. 

Bortalus had spoken with the famous Space Wolf psyker, Njal Stormcaller. They'd fought together briefly near Cadia during the 12th Black Crusade. The Deathbringers were searching for a daemon that Bortalus' scrying had divined. The Wolves were, as it happened, in pursuit of it themselves, and had chased it through an Eldar webway gate. The Deathbringers dropped onto the planet by thunderhawk. Right at the same time Njal had lead his three packs of Space Wolves out of the gate. 

Bortalus was a young marine then, though gifted, but his scrying didn't carry as much weight with his Chapter as it later would. He had only recently come to possess the Table of E'ntuh Prix, and while it had aided his farsight immensely, he hadn't yet proven its utility to his brothers. He only had two tactical squads with him. The thunderhawk was on call, but would not linger. 

And of course, Brother-Ancient Endymion. He had been awake at the time, and had been undergoing repairs. As soon as he'd heard of the nature of the operation, he'd insisted on accompanying the battleforce. 

The two marine chapters had linked up, and with the two librarians combining their divinitive efforts, it hadn't taken long to trace the daemon's unique psi-signature. But they hadn't been prepared when the daemon had opened a warp gate, and let in a small flood of its daemonic brethren. The fifty-odd marines had formed a tight circle, and drove off waves of their attackers, before the two psykers sealed the rift. Njal had stood against the warp-winds, his upright runestaff blazing with power, as he chanted the rites of exorcism. Bortalus tried to add his words to the chant, but could not focus his powers enough to give the incantation any power. So he had contented himself with hurling blasts of psychic energy at the monstrosities that were closing in on the beleaguered marines. 

Njal had won his battle of wills with the daemon. The gateway had snapped shut so suddenly a blue horror had come through sans half a left leg. 

The firing stopped shortly afterwards, and only the slowing, whining, whirr of Brother-Ancient Endymion's still-spinning assault cannon held silence at bay. 

Njal held his runestaff thrust out like a spear. Lightning played along its length, and out to a humanoid thing held aloft by the flickering energy. Holding it steady, he advanced towards it, until he was barely a meter away from it. 

He glared at it, palpable waves of disgust resonating from his powerful frame. When he spoke, it was as a rising, angry shout. 

"In the name of the Emperor, and all that is holy in the universe, begone, spawn of chaos." 

His runestaff came crashing down on its head, and it exploded, a seething ripple of white light that sent a shockwave in all directions. 

When the dust settled, Bortalus looked up to watch the rune priest walk up to him, and look down at the Deathbringer. 

"Not bad, for a pup. Still need work, but Russ'd have you." 

Bortalus had just received high praise, and knew it. Njal bent down and offered the prone Deathbringer his hand. Bortalus took it, and the older psyker helped him up. 

"Thank you, Lord Stormcaller. That display was impressive." 

The Space Wolf looked at his runestaff appreciatively. 

"Wasn't just me, boy. I had help." 

Bortalus followed his gaze to the ancient staff with no small degree of reverence. It made his force sword look far too modern to be in keeping with a psyker's mystique. 

Njal saw the look and commented. 

"Useful things, boy. You should think about finding yourself one." 

"A relic-familiar? I have one." 

The Space Wolf looked stunned. His thick, black eyebrows went up towards his hairline. 

"And so young. Why do you not carry it with you in battle?" 

Bortalus looked down and half-muttered his somewhat embarrassed response. 

"Because it's a… um… its… it's a table." 

Njal looked at the younger, blue-and-black-clad psyker, and then started to laugh. His deep, full belly laugh had echoed around the empty clearing, and down into Bortalus' conscious mind to this day. 

Sure, Njal had been complimentary with regards to the exceptional scrying and divining ability that the granted the Deathbringer, but he'd thought it too funny for words. 

His scrying, his portents, and his reading of the Emperor's Tarot had become a fact of life within the Lycurgan Protectorate. 

But he still got occasional laughs from other psykers who knew that his psi-conduit was a table. 

8888888888888888888888 

Bortalus sat cross legged next to the table, and set a small silver bowl on it, between him and the candle at the table's centre. 

The room was absolutely silent. Even the hum of the ship's warp-engines was blocked out here. 

The Librarian poured a cup full of water into the bowl. He swirled it round three times, murmuring the litany of revelation as he did so. He moved his left hand over to the table, and picked up the candle by the wax. He moved it over the bowl, and tilted it, so several drops of the scented, molten paraffin dripped into the water. Ripples spread out over its surface. 

Then, reaching towards the small, ornate plasteel chest on his right, he flicked a latch, and opened it. He made the sign of the aquilae, and then moved his armoured hand into it. 

He had no need to look, and didn't. He knew where he'd put them. The same place he had every time for a hundred and fifty odd years. 

He pulled them out. 

They were small, no more than three inched long, and two wide. Fractionally thicker than a deck of playing cards, by virtue of there being 78 rather than 52 of them. 

He placed them on the right of the scrying bowl, and then picked it up. The paraffin had congealed into two floating blobs. He swirled the bowl around three times more, and that set the small globes spinning in the tiny vortex. 

As the water spun, he picked up the cards, and began to shuffle. Eyes fixed on the almost mesmeric water, his hands moved with a mind of their own. He opened his mind-sight to the winds of the warp. 

He felt, rather than saw the candle flicker in the calm air, leaning away from him as if there was a wind on his back. The flickering candle anchored his consciousness to the plane, as his mind wandered through the warp, and his hands moved without his direction. 

He kept shuffling while the water spun, minutes passing while his hands blurred together, a dizzying pattern of movement, along with the muffled sounds of cards rubbing against each other. 

The water stopped, and the dizzying array of images that had been flashing through the psyker's mind stopped, as though he'd turned off a tap. Which, in a manner of speaking, he had. 

He opened his eyes, refocussing on the candle in front of him. The view of it corresponded to what had been in place at the centre of his mind's eye. The first indication of a true reading. 

He pulled the first card. The High Priest. His own card. Or at least, that which represented him, in his capacity as the company's senior librarian. That was the second, and most certain indication of the reading's validity. It was highly rare that the two indicators were both in alignment and the reading false, or tainted. 

He placed the card down on the table, in the centre of the space between its edge, and the rim of the scrying bowl. It was the centre of this reading, as he was doing it. It also, simultaneously, was acknowledging that the reading was, by necessity, biased by his view. 

The next card he pulled was the Galaxy. A signal of notable events. Things that could well literally affect the galaxy. He placed the card at north, between the diviner card and the scrying bowl. 

Bortalus was about to pull the third card, when he looked more closely at the first. The tiny smudge that usually denoted the Eye of Terror was missing. The galaxy looked almost placid by comparison. Interesting. He set it down anticlockwise from north, revolving around the diviner. 

The Hulk. Upside down. A fitting description for the _Sword of Lycurgas_, Bortalus mused. 

Then he chuckled. Course it was. It was referring to the _Sword_. No great surprise there. It shimmered against its own liquid crystal backdrop of stars, winking softly in the candle-light. Down at 9 o'clock. 

Bortalus didn't notice the scent the wax gave off any more, nor the small beads of sweat that glistened inexplicably on his brow in the cold room. 

The Inquisitor. After the Hulk. Again, interesting. Someone investigating, or investigated. No doubt. But related to the Hulk. In this case, related to them. Asking after them, perhaps. Or perhaps they are to ask after something. Or all of the above. Or neither. 

The librarian placed it down anti-clockwise of the Hulk, in the 7 o'clock. He noticed that the card was holding the powersword down, not up. He hadn't seen that before. 

The Alien. A rarely drawn card. Normally so non-specific in meaning that it was regarded by many to be next to useless. 

But what was on it gave the Deathbringer pause, as he set it down at 5 o'clock. 

The card showed a human. 

Bortalus double checked. A chill went down his spine as he noted no mistake. 

For the first time he had ever seen or heard of, the 'Alien' tarot showed a human. 

His hand was almost shaking as he pulled the last card of the reading out and placed it at 3 o'clock. 

The Emperor. Symbol of decisive events, or of His personal hand in matters. The crucial trump. One that, above all, Bortalus had feared to pull. 

There was a reason for the _Sword_'s presence here, and now. The fate everything could rest on it. Humans, humans alien to the Imperium, stand under the eye and the guard of the Emperor. Inquiries must be, or were being, made, by someone, about the _Sword_. This galaxy, a strange, peaceful galaxy, was involved, and would receive the _Sword_. 

A terrifying reading. Events present and future would hinge on what they did. But one thing was clear. The _Sword_ must question, find out what needed to be done, and carry out the will of the Emperor, to safeguard the alien humans, as dictated by His will. The fate of the Galaxy, now and tomorrow, rested on it. 

Bortalus made the sign of the Aquilae again, and replaced the cards. He picked up his force sword from next to the door, just prior to walking out. 

It never occurred to him, as he cast the Emperor's Tarot, the prophetic device linked to the Emperor's soul and that relied on His foresight to deliver to the caster its readings, could not work in the absence of the soul on which it was based. 

The door to Bortalus' sanctuary closed. A minute later, a strong wind blew through the sealed, insulated room. The candle went out. 

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Picard had spent half an hour reviewing the information packets that the Admiral had sent. It was painful. Painful to say the least. He had known Captain S'Var for a number of years. Never well. But he had known him. 

Too many ships lost. The fleet had acquitted itself well, of that there was no doubt. But not well enough. They'd fought a major engagement against a comparable fleet, and come out well ahead. 

But that fleet was, if the information provided by Admiral Janeway was correct, only the first wave of an armada bigger than anything the Federation had seen. And easily twenty times larger than the one just defeated. The Admiral's voice echoed through his mind. 

'_We lost twenty-eight ships, Jean-Luc.'_

Nearly eight thousand dead. The most sophisticated warships in the quadrant. And it wasn't enough. 

'_The station was undamaged, and the Bajorans are arming their freighters, but I wouldn't put too much hope in that remedy.'_

No. The Bajoran Militia struggled to keep pirates out of the system unaided. They would be little help, if any. 

The Federation couldn't hold with what was available. Even if the Federation stripped every ship from every patrol route, cancelled every exploratory mission, and postponed every diplomatic task, they wouldn't match the Armada. If then, in addition, the Federation withdrew from all disputed territories, and put every half-built ship, all the tug-boats and every freighter, armed or otherwise, into combat, they would STILL fall short. And then let the Bajorans, Klingons and Cardassians do the same. Still not enough. 

'_We need help. From anywhere you can get it.'_

Without the assistance of the ship in front of them, the ship that single-handedly massed more than half of Starfleet, the Federation would fall. Either by invasion, or to the serried guns of the coming armada. 

Picard wouldn't wish either on anyone, least of all on innocent Federation worlds. 

Betazed had suffered terribly during its occupation. Although not as terribly as it might have. And Dominion internment camps were the stuff of nightmares. 

He dropped the padd back on his desk and leant back in his chair. He pinched the bridge of his nose with the fingers of his right hand, closing his eyes as he tried to massage away his growing headache. 

His eyes snapped open again within seconds. He could not afford self-pity. Billions rested on his shoulders. He stood up, and moved away from the furniture. His eyes caught something through the view port, hanging in space near the _Sword_. And much as the thought of this 'Imperium' terrified Picard, he was enough of a humanist to appreciate that he'd rather his species survive than not. 

'_From anywhere you can get it.'_

Eyes wrinkled as the seed of a plan took root in his mind. 

"Picard to Keenan". 

There was a slight pause as the signal travelled more than the usual distance. 

'_Keenan here, go ahead'._

"I've finished with Admiral Janeway. Would you ask our hosts if they're ready to receive me. We have a pressing matter to discuss." 

How much of the following pause was discussion, and how much was consideration, would never be known to Picard, but Keenan responded within a minute. 

'_Ready to receive you, come over when ready.'_

"Acknowledged Picard out." 

The line died, and he tapped it again, as he walked out of his quarters, striding purposefully towards the transporter rooms. 

"Picard to Brennaman." 

'_Brennaman here, sir.'_

"You have the ship. I'm heading back to the _Sword of Lycurgas_ by transporter. First contact protocols are rescinded. If anything comes up, anything at all, let me know." 

'_Aye, sir.'_

"Thank you, lieutenant. Picard out." 

Perfect timing. He walked onto the transporter room platform, as a transporter chief, looking flustered, trotted in after the fast moving captain. 

"Sorry sir, I didn't realise that you…" 

Picard cut him off. He didn't care, and hadn't the time to hear it. 

"Bridge of the _Sword_, chief. Energise." 

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Keenan tried not to be too relieved when he saw the hazy blue matrix that announced the arrival of the older Federation Captain. 

Picard was something of a legend in Starfleet. He could have been an Admiral, of that there was no doubt. He certainly had the intellect, and the presence, for the position. 

But he had turned down several promotional officers, before command simply stopped offering them. 

Picard had once been asked about that very point, while Keenan was a lieutenant commander. Keenan had heard his answer, and remembered it, but wasn't quite sure about how exactly it fit with who the man was. 

Picard had said: "Because, as Captain, you can always make a difference." 

And here the man was, about to make another difference. 

Picard shook hands with the junior captain, before the pair of them began to walk over towards the marine officers. 

"How has the contact gone in my absence?" 

"Fairly well. Cordial, although they are unusual. Nothing we've seen has changed my initial impressions. What did the Admiral want?" 

Picard's grim poker-face slipped for an instant, before it snapped back into place. 

"She wants us to ask if we can borrow their ship." 

Keenan stopped walking as Picard kept going. 

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	22. Retrieving Canute's chair

The Sithspawn: Yes, it may be interesting. That'll be in the next chapter. Amongst other things, of course. Picard and Haruman have an interesting dynamic, which I am enjoying writing.

Smithklein: Religion is a crucial part of Imperial history, in no small part because in Imperial canon, worship of deities actually contributes to their power in the warp. To entirely exclude the Imperial faith from space marines in particular would seem to me to be an affront to the title. And glad you liked the psi-familiar table. There'll be more on that later…

Mountain King: Jem'Hadar. Interesting xeno species. Unlikely to be exceptionally resistant to bolter fire.

Liljimmyurine: The _Bismarck_ and _Tirpitz_ were both magnificent ships. One had the British Home Fleet running around like headless chickens, and then withstood hours of bombardment from no less than three cutting-edge battleships, including the _King George V._ They couldn't sink it. It ended up scuttling itself. A fair achievement. Well spotted reference. For those who didn't know, it went down in the North Atlantic. And, of course, the H44 would have been bigger. Cheers for the flattery.

Shinova: Correct. Not dead. Nor likely to be in the near future.

Tim: You may think the Jem'Hadar are in for a butt-kicking. You may well be right :P. I always thought that GW portrayed the marines a little too over-zealous. As I have said before, unthinking soldiers are dead soldiers, and marines are huge investments in themselves. They'd be thinking all the time. But hey, that's covering old ground.

You have, however, raised an interesting point about the placement of Terra/Sol/Earth. Many people have pointed out the difficulties in marrying up the two universes, based on galactic geography, pointing out in particular the location of Earth. The solution is simple. Star Trek canon says that Earth is contemporary Earth, that orbits the sun, etc. It goes so far as to mention specific places on Earth. Paris is the location of the office of the President of the Federation. Further, 40k canon has shown maps of "Holy Terra". It's also Earth, as we know today, if a little changed over the years. Blame that on the orbital bombardment sustained during the Horus Heresy. To say nothing of widespread catastrophic pollution. So, knowing that most real astronomical charts have positioned Earth midway out a spiral arm to the galactic west, I have simply mentally rotated the Star Trek galactic charts clockwise 70 degrees or so. That places the Romulans in the area around the three-way border between the Pacifica, Tempustus and Solar Segmentum. The Eye of Terror would fall into the far northern reaches of the Alpha quadrant. The Delta quadrant would equate, approximately, to the Eastern Fringe. Hence _Voyager_'s long trip home. Questions comments or queries from the floor?

That Swedish guy: Spot on with the warp thing. Or, very close to, anyway. And nice try with the guess at the Emperor. Very close. Reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally close. But not quite :P…

Somos: I'll give you choppy, lol. Lucinius' powersword. That's "choppy"…

Ed: Imperial technology is a somewhat confounding mix of the hyper-advanced and the alarmingly primitive. Imperial warp drive is almost like trans-warp, rather than sub-warp 10 transit. Note how long it took _Voyager_ to cover the distance from the Delta Quadrant. But yes, replicators, EMHs, etc… they require a lot of power, however. Who's to say that the Imperial vessels don't have those facilities? They just might be one of the myriad of ancient systems that the Imperium doesn't utilise. Imperial ships, even their "new ones" are, for the most part, built according to the old specifications and blueprints. They know how to build them, but not how all their systems work.

Grayangle: I really do appreciate your compliments. They are a great inspiration. As 'Head Fanatic', your examination of my words carries that much more weight than most. And yes, borrowing a space marine warship may be… problematic. It's the holiday season. The season to be jolly, and all that rot. Thank you. You as well.

Xephon: Glad you like. Comments and compliments like that are always good. Adds that nice lick of CPR to my sometimes unhealthy muse. I always thought that people had a habit of portraying the Imperium too much as "the good guys". They might be, but only in comparison to most other races. chuckle And I got a good laugh out of the hippy reference.

...: I am glad that you think it's excellent and amazing. And am updating now. Oooooooo, I have a question. Who are you? I don't want to have to refer to you as "...". Now, without further ado…

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The silence was almost eerie. They all watched him, with a combination of stupor and terror. It wasn't every day that a loyalist space marine shot an Imperial Admiral onboard an Imperial warship. But happen it sometimes did, and happen here, it had.

"Are there any questions?"

The silence stretched. And kept stretching. Minutes passed, while the Deathbringer captain's gaze travelled across the faces of the men in front of him.

None moved.

Not that Lysander really expected anyone to. He'd just shot their boss. In front of them. For giving him lip.

Well, technically he shot him because by doing so Lysander would be able to stop billions and billions of people from dying. Lysander thought it was a pretty fair trade, truth be told. That Admiral Antigonos had insulted him, Revinius, the honour of both their chapters, and the Adeptus Astartes at large, just made the task that much less unpleasant.

"Very well then. If there are no questions relating to my assumption of command of this operation, then lets move on to this operation itself. Who here is in favour of initiating an exterminatus?"

Again, complete silence. But then, the marine officer had just shot the Admiral for advocating that very view. It was understandable that the assembled officers may be hesitant about espousing the same course of action. Which was interesting. Given that, no more than a few minutes ago, there had indeed been a captain that had first brought up the idea.

Lysander's gaze turned to the man that had ventured the opinion earlier. Then, looking directly at him, and meeting the man's gaze, the space marine asked the question again.

"I ask the question again, is anyone here advocating the use of exterminatus?"

The man shuffled in his chair, the first overt movement for some time. A couple of seconds later, the initial proponent of exterminatus, Captain Rothman, spoke up.

"I am, uh, sir."

Lysander's eyes didn't waiver.

"So you think exterminatus is a good idea? Why?"

Rothman was uncomfortable. Really he was. He had seen the huge man in front of him shoot Admiral Antigonos. It had been… confronting. And this Brother-Captain Lysander did not look happy with him.

"We can't let them have the planet, sir. And, it looks like they're going to get it. Better the people die to naval gunfire than survive and be eaten alive by the Tyranids."

Lysander held his gaze still.

"You'd be prepared to kill 22 billion of the Emperor's people?"

Rothman swallowed nervously, but kept his head up and answered clearly.

"Yes, brother-captain, if the circumstances called for it, I would." Lysander's eyes turned hard before softening and relaxing considerably, standing up straighter and defusing much of the room's tension as he did so.

"I am glad to hear that, Captain. You wouldn't be much use as an Imperial officer if you weren't prepared to do that."

He relaxed further, and addressed the room.

"Gentlemen, I am a space marine brother-captain. I have fought constantly for longer than you have been alive. I have lead men, in His name, through countless battles and over rivers of blood."

He met everyone's questioning eyes evenly.

"But we must remember that we fight for the Emperor, and through Him, all mankind. If our actions do not serve mankind's interests, then we are wasting the resources of the Imperium by our existence."

Lysander saw understanding start to appear on the faces of the men around him.

"By proposing to initiate an exterminatus, Admiral Antigonos was proposing to destroy an exceptionally valuable Imperial resource. His suggestion had, and still does, have a great deal of merit, in the circumstances."

The veteran officer's face turned hard again.

"But that planet has 22 billion Imperial subjects on it. 22 billion _people_. Without those people, and the industry they service, and soldiers they provide, the war against the Great Devourer will be that much harder to fight… And there are precious few planets with comparable capacity in this area. We need Ichar. No, I will rephrase that. The _Imperium_ needs Ichar. In fact, by extension, every species in this Emperor-damned galaxy needs that planet. Because without that planet -"

Lysander pointed out the viewport, black-armoured hand stabbing a finger in the direction the planet lay.

"- fuelling the effort in the galactic east, the Tyranids will come crashing through our lines, and they will consume. Every. Living. Thing."

Lines were made of mouths, as the brother-captain's deep voice cut like a knife, reality sliding in through the detachment that the men felt as the masters of their kilometres-long warships.

Reality sucked.

"We will not let the Tyranids take Ichar. We can't. We will destroy it, before we let that happen. But I cannot and I will not allow someone full of their own importance to consign the galaxy to oblivion on a whim."

None moved. Lysander continued, his matter-of-fact manner simultaneously hiding and emphasising the import and depth of his words.

"Now, aside from exterminatus, does anyone else have any ideas as to how me might be able to stave off the imminent destruction of the galaxy and everything we hold dear?"

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Lucinius swung his blade down, cleaving through a Tyranid Warrior's upper left thigh, and sending the monstrosity crashing to the ground. A loud, almost sickening crunch resounded through the battlefield as the Brother-Centurion stood on its chitinous neck, then, almost casually, raised his bolt pistol and shot the last two hormagaunts engaged with the frontline of his cohort's sector.

The assault had hurt. 5th Cohort, pinned in place as it was, had taken 19 casualties, including 8 dead. Might not be much, numerically, compared to guard units, but was a considerable loss in time and effort to a marine chapter. After the previous actions, the 5th was down to 72 combat capable marines.

The heaviest casualties, as usual, being in the assault units. They'd taken 12 of the 28 losses. There were now only eight of them left able to fight. They'd fought well, but another assault on that scale would probably break them. They needed to disengage, withdraw to orbit, and recoup their losses, as well as perform required surgery on the wounded brothers. Apothecaries were tending to them, using the latest in Ryzan, Terran and Lycurgan equipment and techniques, but it wouldn't be fast enough.

And of course, they were surrounded.

And had huge numbers of Tyranids milling outside effective weapon range, forming up for another attack.

The Whirlwinds that had been effectively disrupting the incoming waves previously had run dry. The dreadnoughts were still up. Elder-Centurion Crassus was down an arm, now fighting with just a missile launcher, and Elder-Optio Vespus' assault cannon had become so hot that its barrel had warped, and been rendered useless. The dreadnought had been using it as an oversize club ever since. Three of the cohort's five heavy bolters had run out of ammunition. The devastator units had marines that were using bolters or plasma guns scavenged from the dead and wounded.

5th was a mess.

They were stuck. They would likely all die here, unless something changed. Which was a shame, really.

They weren't really achieving much, stuck here in the middle of nowhere, not defending anything except themselves, and unable to pull themselves out.

In fact, Lucinius was expecting biovores to start lobbing spore mines at them any second. He mentally revised his tally of his brothers lost as an apothecary helped Brother-Optio Kedron to his feet. The squad-commander had lost his right arm, and had been pinned under the Tyranid that had taken it. But now he was upright again, and would fight on. Lucinius made a mental note to congratulate him. Perhaps a decoration. If the man survived, he may even promote him. Emperor knew that there would be some vacancies in the cohort soon enough…

The cohort standard-bearer spoke to him.

"Brother-Centurion, they are massing."

Lucinius watched as the hormagaunts started to move. It was always hormagaunts in the first wave. Genestealers hard up behind them, Termagants and Tyranid Warriors behind that.

Hormagaunts were expendable. They were nigh on numberless. And were only of use in close quarter combat. The wave of chitin-armoured bodies crested a low ridge.

Five hundred metres.

_Déjà vu?_ Lucinius thought to himself. He didn't have to look or listen to know that the devastator squads were lining up, ready to fire on his mark.

Lucinius would normally have given the fire order by now. But he waited. The plasma guns wouldn't have the range. Which meant that both tactical and devastator units of the cohort would all fire as one.

Three seconds.

Two.

One.

"FIRE".

The line lit up as sixty muzzles flashed bright in the darkening day.

The tyranid line seemed to rock back, as the sudden wall of bodies tripped up the second wave. The impromptu obstacle was like a sea-wall to the rising tide, and the marines built upon it, controlled blasts of bolter fire bringing down more and more of the six-limbed creatures, falling atop the corpses of their fellows. Then, like a bursting dam, the wall collapsed with the weight of mass behind it.

Carnifex.

Three of the things.

The cohort's heavy support would bring them down, but in seeing them in the vanguard, Lucinius felt ice grip his hearts. The fire they'd have to direct at the sickle-clawed giants would be firepower that was not firing at the rest of the swarm. And with the _Gladius_ having been forced away from orbit, there would be no topaz fire clearing away the filth that assailed them. The Dark Templar 5th Cohort would die where it stood.

The whoosh of the missile-launchers preceded the obliteration of one, and the messy death of the second. The bolters ignored it, and kept blazing at the smaller creatures rushing alongside them. They continued to fall, as the well-drilled precision of the marines brought down tyranids by the score. Then, as Lucinius had expected, almost as one, the bolters fell silent.

Ammunition.

They had to reload. It was less than two seconds. Decades, even centuries of drills had the magazine changes down to a fine art. But tyranids move further than most species do in two seconds. Four missiles slammed into the remaining Carnifex. But it wouldn't be enough. He opened up with his bolt-pistol as the tyranids line closed.

Less than one hundred metres.

This assault would do it. The last of the Imperial line to hold fast after the last major offensive would be overrun. It didn't occur to Lucinius that he'd just glossed over several million deaths.

His bolt-pistol, in turn, clicked dry. He holstered it, and drew his powersword. In time to run it through a hormagaunt, and swing it off the blade. His shield slammed, boss first, into the face of another, which he cut in half with a horizontal stroke of his weapon. Then another, and another. And more.

The roar of jump-packs was welcome, as assault troops engaged the front. Short lived it may be, but the respite was desperately welcome. The assault squad's push forward had given the tactical units time to reload afresh. Bolters fired again, carving violent purple swathes through the horde before once again ominous clicks were heard as firing pins cracked home onto empty chambers.

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The Imperial command had reached a decision. A gamble. A gamble that had as its stake the lives of 22 billion people. Or the galaxy, depending on how you looked at it. Guard units on the planet itself were collapsing back towards the major Hive clusters. At least, that was the plan. The effect looked similar. A better description, however, would have been simply saying that the Imperial Guard units on the planet were just plain collapsing.

Columns of men and tanks staged fighting withdrawals under the cover of the massive Imperial artillery bombardments. What was left of Ichar IV's planetary ecology was rapidly collapsing under the stress of the conflict. Many thousands of tonnes of ammunition were being expended each day. The barrels of Earthshaker cannons turned white hot and boiled. Men manning the siege guns on the Hive walls burned themselves into their machines as the temperatures rose, scorching their flesh to the super-heated metal.

But still the Tyranids came on.

The horizon shuddered and shimmered with filth, and the air filled with the raucous cries of chittering monstrosities. Dozens, hundreds died each time a siege engine spoke. So much Tyranid blood was spilt that the evaporating air turned purple. Bunkers and pillboxes on the Hive cities' armoured walls had their firing slits jammed with Tyranid dead.

Ammunition, stockpiled for decades of siege and conflict, began to run low in hours. The Adeptus Arbites reversed millennia of Imperial policy, and actively sought to arm the populace. The PDF armouries were opened, and people helped themselves to lasrifles, autoguns, ammunition and grenades. Preachers whipped crowds into frenzies, prophesying the coming of the Devourer, and the fight against its foul minions in the name of life itself.

Nearly 90,000 people died when a hysterical mob stampeded upon rumours that a Tyranid organism was in that sector of the Hive. Gangs that had long been convinced of their strength, that had grubbed in the dirty shadows of humanity's glory for all their lives, like children playing in the mud by a castle, suddenly felt the chilling realisation that the galaxy was a hostile place.

Blood-feuds were put aside as the tension grew, and the unity before adversity that had so long been the blessing and the curse of humanity once again came to the fore. Men who would have shot each other on sight barely days ago shook hands and grimly checked each other's weapons. Commissars inspected the arms of their units, their humanity plain to see for perhaps the first time. They stood before their men, knowing that their men would fight. They had no choice. If the men did not, the Tyranids would kill them. They couldn't run. The Tyranids would catch them. They could only fight, and win, or die. Stern-faced masters of the Imperial creed they may be. But commissars are men. Men who would stand and die beside their comrades.

The Navy was pulling out. The Hives would hold for as long as they could. The Tyranid subfleet command ships would land, and start attempting to assimilate the planet itself. Then the fleet would move, and roll the dice that would preserve or break the Imperium.

Lysander knew all that.

He was a pillar of strength to those around him. The magnitude of the responsibility these men carried, here and now, was known, but not completely fathomed. Indeed, it couldn't be. The full appreciation of the weight of duty would buckle the strongest spirit. So they looked to the one who had appointed himself as leader in what had been a brutally effective coup. And Lysander definitely looked the part better than the slightly plump Imperial admiral had. Bigger, older, and far, far less flustered. He was also the closest he had ever been to being absolutely terrified.

He was a Deathbringer Lord of a Hundred. Veteran of a thousand wars, high-born scion of a noble house of Lycurgas. He was -very literally- built for the duties that he would be called upon to undertake. Making decisions that would effect the untold billions that made up the Imperium was part of those duties… but 'effect' had been the key word.

He hadn't been trained or equipped to make decisions that could send the Imperium to its ruin. The greatest empire the galaxy had seen would hold or crumble at his words. But it would crumble without those words, and he knew that.

It still left him feeling sick. Marine Captains were not supposed to hold the fate of the Imperium in their hands.

But this one did, regardless. He knew it, and knew that the operation he had constructed would stand a greater chance of success if those that carried it out had confidence in him and his dictates. So he swallowed his terror, squared his jaw, and addressed the _Leonidas'_ comm-operator.

"Open the channel, audio and visual."

The bondsman's fingers flew across the data console. The viewscreen of the strike cruiser filled with the images of the captains of the Imperial ships Lysander commanded.

"We fight today for all mankind. We all know the hows and whys. We will do our tasks. You all know your tasks. Emperor be with you. Initiate."

The viewscreen died, and the starfield came up again. Within seconds, the multitude of ships activated their warp engines, brightness flaring at their sterns, before leaping forward and vanishing into nothing. More seconds pass. Only three ships remained in system. Three Space Marine strike cruisers.

The _Leonidas_.

The_ Triarius_.

And the ship that Lysander and Revinius had chased across the galaxy. The _Gladius._

Lysander spoke across the comm-link.

"Good to go, brother?"

"Course I am. Unless those rust-bucket thunderhawks you gave us have fallen apart again."

Lysander smirked. Revinius was a laugh. Lycurgan-built thunderhawks had been given or sold to several marine chapters, the Dark Templars amongst them. They were all top-notch. And Lysander had every confidence that the Templar techmarines had treated them with the reverence that the aircraft's machine spirits deserved.

"Bondsman-Captain Julianus, are your thunderhawks ready?"

Bondsman-Captain Julianus, the master of the _Gladius_ had watched painfully as Tyranid fleet units and anti-aircraft fire had forced him to abandon several attempts to retrieve the 5th Cohort. But now he had three strike cruisers worth of firepower on the task. Yes, his remaining four flyable thunderhawks were ready.

"We stand ready, brother-captain. Once again, your chapter has helped us in our darkest hour."

Lysander nodded, although he knew that the man couldn't see the gesture.

"Always."

There was a long pause before Lysander spoke again.

"Always."

The next silence stretched again. A silence laced with meaning. A different meaning in each person's case, but meaning nonetheless.

"Come on then, knock off the melodramatics and lets go drag Lucinius back."

"Form up on Revinius' flight. Diamond formation. You will lead us in, Brother-Centurion?"

"I will. That's my brother down there."

It is, Lysander thought. For despite the regard he held Revinius in, the Dark Templars were not his chapter. Lucinius was a companion of many lifetimes to Revinius.

"To the birds then."

Lysander cut the feed, then spun on his heels, speaking into his company command circuit as he did so.

"Squads Ward, Kell and Maher, meet me at the hangars. We're going in for a hot extraction."

A chorus of acknowledgments followed his form as he retreated into the depths of his strike cruiser.

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Sixteen black thunderhawks roared through the atmosphere, adamantine noses blazing white hot with friction with the thin air. Revinius rode the lead craft. Lysander the tail. Four birds from the _Gladius._ Four from the _Triarius_. Eight from the _Leonidas_. Deathbringers always seemed to come in heavy on the kit.

Not that Revinius minded. They were damn handy to have around. And their production capacity had served the Dark Templars well. For years since their emergence from the warp, the Templars had fought from Lycurgan ships, carried to battle upon Lycurgan tanks and armed with Lycurgan weapons. The Dark Templars owed the Deathbringers.

It was that, as well as his friendship with Brother-Captain Lysander, which had spurred him to lead his company alongside the _Leonidas_ across half the galaxy. Now it seemed that Lycurgans were pulling Templars out of the fire again.

The world shuddered and rocked as a Tyranid anti-aircraft creature missed the Thunderhawk by the narrowest of margins, the explosion shaking the armoured craft like a dice in a madman's dishwasher. The formation continued to descend, winding through and around the flak.

_Herald Lead to Eagle Lead, hostiles at six low._

Lysander's thunderhawk. The back of the formation. Spotted Tyranids coming in from behind and below.

_Eagle Lead acknowledges, Herald Lead._

The Thunderhawk formation's combined firepower was immense. Tongues of fire lashed out from the gunships, impaling the flights of gargoyles on their explosive points.

Revinius looked back just in time to see a blast of green fire impact the right wing of the 'hawk to his left. The gunship was moving so fast that the sudden destabilisation sent it into a spin. The spin would be fatal. The voice over the comm from the spiralling thunderhawk was calm, belying the urgency of the words.

_Eagle Three, going down. Negligible survival chance. Personnel on board, Brother-Optio Pitman, Brother-Legionnaires Otago, Emmanuel and Yule. We commend our souls to the Emperor, and our bodies to oblivion. Pray for us, in the knowledge that we gave -give- our all for Him. _

Revinius barely heard his pilot, the flight leader, acknowledging.

_Eagle Lead copies, Eagle Three. Go with Him. We will see you on the other side, Brothers._ _Eagle Three, signing off._

Revinius felt sick, as he watched his brothers' thunderhawk spiral, pirouette and roll through the heavens.

To heaven, in fact, and an eternity in the presence of the Emperor. He'd heard the death hymns from the marines in the background when their commander had been talking.

It still took an effort not to weep.

Partly because he was still under fire, he held himself together. Revinius had fought alongside Brother-Optio Henry Pitman for a very, very long time. He envied the composure of the dying. Perhaps, Revinius thought, it was better. Death in a sudden fiery instant than at the hands, teeth and claws of the tyranids.

He banished the thought. It was unworthy of him, and cheapened the sacrifice of those around him.

His aide and cohort standard-bearer, Brother-Optio Hayes, rested his armoured gauntlet on Revinius' right shoulder. Nothing else was, nor would be, said. What do you say to someone who has lost a brother of three hundred years?

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Lucinius was faltering. The cohort, like him, was faltering. Casualties, or at least marines killed, were, so far, low. Many of the wounded were still fighting, having dragged themselves into the ever shrinking circle. Lucinius was still on two legs, but his right shoulder guard had been torn off, and the neural feedback from that had been phenomenal.

His powersword flashed again. He'd killed numberless creatures that day. His once gleaming weapon was stained purple, the foul ichor turning the pure blue radiance of his blade into a weak, sickly parody of itself.

He hated the Tyranids, he thought as he kicked another back. They felt no hatred for him, of that he was sure. He was just a food source to the Devourer. Nothing more. And that refusal of his enemy to hate him just made him hate them all the more.

The marine to his left slipped, and Lucinius jumped left and raised his shield, just in time to deflect a flurry of blows from yet another hormagaunt.

The Tyranids just kept coming.

Lucinius had felt fear before. It was common. Many said marines were fearless. Indeed, the battlecry of "they shall know no fear" was well known amongst the populace of the Imperium. But it was a myth. Fear was a natural reaction. What was courage in the absence of fear? Does a sentry gun have courage, when it stands before its destruction? No. It was the conquest of fear by strength of will that made for courage. And never before had the Brother-Centurion felt such abject, total terror.

Despite his resolve, despite his resistance and deliberate, methodical destruction of anything that came within the arc of his sword, Lucinius knew in his heart of hearts that he was doomed. He had fought enemies of the Emperor beyond number. For centuries. But never, not once in his too-long-life, had he felt such depths of soul-searing despair as he did now.

He would die, alongside his brothers. He and their gene-seed lost, their collective legacy, lost to his chapter. A grievous blow. And as he died, he would feel the press of the horde pass his failing body, and know that by his death he'd consigned his cohort to oblivion. And by his failure, sent the Imperium the same way.

The Brother-Legionnaire he had shielded rose and slashed at the first Tyranid to hand. No words were exchanged. None needed to be.

Lucinius was bone-weary. His blade, normally almost a toy in the hands of its space marine wielder, felt like it was made of lead. More. Lead could be twirled as nothing by a marine. But the exertion that was demanded, that was being demanded, of it, was beyond even his physically altered limits. His armour was helping, and it had long past the point where the armour was providing most of the mobility. Lucinius almost felt like a puppet within his armour, his limbs pulled and pushed as if by unseen strings. And if he was feeling it, if he was aware of his mind moving his armour rather than his body, then the other marines would be struggling.

And they were.

Unusual movement turned Lucinius's gaze for a moment. He watched as another carnifex surged through the ranks of tyranids, lesser creatures scattering like a watercraft's bow-wave. Lucinius opened his mouth to scream a warning.

Too late.

Two things happened.

Elder-Optio Vespus' assault cannon was long since useless, it had been fighting with power-fist alone since its flamer ran dry. The comforting smell of promethium had been over-powered by the pungent ichor for some time. Nevertheless, the dreadnought's whirling, mobile and impervious presence had held up a goodly portion of the line. The tyranids had come on regardless, but had broken against the adamantine juggernaut like the sea upon a rocky shore.

Then the carnifex slammed into the dreadnought. No one would argue that the dreadnought was out of the fight. But now it suddenly became obvious that it would be.

Worse, the tyranids suddenly surged through the gap in the line that the fallen dreadnought left, even while it flailed on the ground against its attackers. The swarm surged over the prostrate mechanoid, and the fighting wounded turned their bolters to the new front.

The second thing that happened was a spike rifle shot pierced the distracted Lucinius' lower torso. Then another. Then a third smashed into his shoulder, not piercing, but spinning him round. Blinding pain snapped the Brother-Centurion's eyes back to his front, in time to watch a pair of razor tipped hooks bury themselves into his ornate chest armour. He felt himself jerk forward as the sinewy muscles behind them contracted, dragging him agonisingly first to his knees, then towards the mantis-clawed monstrosity in front of him. His powersword rose again, sinking hilt-deep into its midriff. It screamed, a high-pitched, shattering whine that was lost in the discord of the noise around.

He pulled the blade out, and tried to haul himself away, but the barbs of the creature's flesh-hooks were stuck fast. The weight and distraction threw him off. A genestealer pounced on his back, sinking its teeth into his neck. He spun, throwing it off him, as he felt blood pour out of the rapidly sealing hole. He tried to stand, but his armour wasn't responding properly. He started to move to his right, struggling against the deadening weight of ceramite, as the 5th Cohort desperately tried to plug the gap that had been made when Elder Vespus fell. 'Gants swarmed through the gap still.

The line broke.

As Lucinius watched in horror, tyranids overwhelmed the black armoured Templars and the battle sank into a fully-fledged melee.

Two hormagaunts slammed into his left and, still tangled in the flesh-hooks, he fell, the two tyranids still grasping onto his left side. He rolled twice, crushing them beneath the weight of his armour, as more and more tyranids rushed through where he'd been standing. He tried to rise but, to his horror, found his arms entangled in the dead lictor's muscles.

Now on his back, he watched aghast as his lying form was vaulted by more and more of the six-limbed nightmares. A 'stealer stopped above him, and crouched down low, tongue flicking out with a malevolent hiss. It bent down further, lips back in a threatening snarl. Lucinius spat at it, and it reared back, and he commended his soul to the Emperor as the world turned to flame.

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This'll likely be the last update before Christmas. With that in mind, we should all bend our knees and minds before the true master of mankind, all jokes aside, and remember the real meaning of Christmas. The time when we should celebrate the initiation of God's plan to redeem all of us, and the beginning of the life of the person that is the focus of western civilisation, at least in a traditional sense. The person that, regardless of how you think of Him, was so important that we set our calendar by Him.

It is not a time, or, rather, should not be a time, celebrating rampant consumerism. It is not a time to celebrate greed. It is a time to celebrate the greatest gift of all. And, for those not of a Christian inclination, it is a time when we should celebrate that which is really important. I'm sure you can all, individually, work out what that is. Don't waste your lives, or the time that you are given.

Remember, this Christmas/New Year, what is the focus of our lives, and what should be. Tell those that you love that you do. Let your appreciation be known. Give thanks for where you are now. Because I know for damn sure that if you are reading this, there are a whole lot of people that are a hell of a lot worse off than you are.

Give thanks. And be happy. Merry Christmas, and happy new year, to all of you.


	23. Contemplations of Machiavelli

Many apologies for the formatting muck-up. I was rushing off to Victor and Jasmine's wedding yesterday, when I put it up, and thought "hey, I can trust fanfiction. They'll work ok, if I follow their guidelines..."

That didn't turn out so good. Sorry for the burning eyes thing...

Trying again...

Happy (belated) New Year to all of you. Hope you and yours enjoyed the break. Equally, I hope you and yours _had_ a break. They're wonderful things, aren't they? Where would we be without some kind of break? Breaks stop Lycanthrope from going nuts. What did I do over the break? Not a lot. Had two weeks military leave (better than some) and watched the Sydney fireworks from the back of the HMAS Manoora. Not a bad way of spending the time.

Been an interesting time in Sydney, as well, generally speaking. But hey, so that's why I haven't posted. Been relaxing and enjoying myself. Oh, and, a'fore I forget, congrats to Victor and Jasmine on wedding-ness for tomorrow… not that you are going to read this…

Malach645: You know, it's not too often that a bloke gets a compliment that's as coherent, intelligently written and downright flattering as the one that you gave me after the last chapter. It's compliments like that that really get the head swelling. And no, I have nothing against the squids. I mean the navy. But if I hear one more US sailor pointing at Australian frigates and saying "hey, look, their patrol boats have got VLS", I will scream.

Liljimmyurine: Inquisitor Kryptman, fictional character though he is, is a great man. His tireless efforts in defence of humanity are an absolute credit to the species. Normally you're right about Thunderhawks and a flat spin. But there's no telling what other damage was inflicted on the vessel by the blast that mortally wounded it.

Cooldude: Will Picard ask for 40k tech? Perhaps… some of each time's tech will doubtless be highly sought after by the other…

The Sithspawn: I am a fan of the "blaze of glory" death for characters. The tough part is trying to avoid making it corny, and making it believable, and appropriate to circumstance.

Somos: Glad you like. There, as you can doubtless tell by reading this, is indeed more writing coming…

Grayangle: The Emperor speaks, and we listen. The Imperium is all. Without it, we are nothing. Without us, it doth endure regardless. Cheers for the sentiment. I've stumbled across quite a few writers on this site that have encountered your reviews. Good to see, good to see…

Madrikor: I'm glad that you can see possibilities. I certainly can (I think…). Whether or not either side _gets_ the tech it wants will be an entirely different question…

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Haruman felt Bortalus' return before he heard or saw him. The psyker was a strong one, and radiated palpable waves of psychic energy. You were never unaware that he was in the room. The Brother-Captain turned slightly in his chair, looking at him over his left shoulder as the librarian approached.

"Well?"

The blue-armoured man sat next to him, looking contemplative. More contemplative than usual, at any rate. But not apprehensive, as he might have been had the reading been overtly negative. Contemplative wasn't bad. It meant food for thought. A challenge.

If nothing else, this whole scenario was something of a challenge to Haruman. And Haruman had been rather short of original intellectual challenges of late. Although he remained of the opinion that he'd rather his intellect was challenged in such a way that it didn't threaten the integrity of the Imperium.

"Dramatic events are unfolding, Brother. Something is investigating the actions of the _Sword_. The fate of the galaxy hinges on our decisions, and the cards speak of actions with xenos. Human xenos."

"Come again, Brother-Librarian."

"Human xenos. That's what the cards said."

"A true reading, brother?"

"As far as I could tell."

Haruman rolled that round in his head. Human. Xeno. For centuries the two statements had been mutually exclusive. One could have humans helping xenos, and they often were… frowned upon… But alien humans, that was a contradic…

Haruman chuckled to himself. Course it wasn't. This Federation. Full of human xenos. Or, so it appeared, anyway. He looked as his librarian. If he didn't know better he'd have thought that his brother was smirking at him.

He wouldn't dare.

Haruman chuckled again.

'Course he would.

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Captain Keenan walked briskly behind Picard, feeling every bit the junior that he was. But it wasn't often that one found oneself trotting behind someone like a startled dog. Still. Better trotting behind Picard than Nechayev. No one liked her. Although she seemed to like him.

Keenan banished the unpleasant and mildly disturbing thought. What the blazes had Janeway meant? Borrow their ship? Or was Picard pulling his leg. The man had a sense of humour. That much was known to all of Starfleet. But now was neither the time, nor the place.

T'Marid saw their return, and nodded to the pair of them. The trill officer was remarkably capable. He'd be in line for a ship command of his own soon. If he survived the current situation. Grim it may be, but Keenan expected there to be quite a few command vacancies across the entirety of starfleet, opening up in the near future. He hoped that he and his crew would be alive to take advantage of this fact, however distasteful the fact itself was.

Keenan snapped out of his reverie and jerked himself to a halt as Picard spoke again.

"Brother-Captain, I apologise for the breach in protocol, but the communication was urgent. And it pertains very directly to our talks."

Keenan saw the "brother-captain" turn from the waist towards the individual identified as a "librarian" –who called a military rank 'librarian'?- and meet his gaze. They held each other's eyes for a couple of seconds. Keenan and Picard both recognised the look. It was one that could only be shared by people that had a long association and familiarity with each other. Picard had guessed as much. Keenan had been told as much.

"Go on, Captain Picard. We can't very well respond to a comment like that. What is it that has been conveyed to you?"

Haruman wasn't brusque. He was curious, and anxious for the Federation Captain to get to the point. But he had a suspicion that he was about to do something outrageous again.

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Techmarine Varrel swore and then muttered an apology to the machine spirit, as its life-energy (about 40,000 volts worth of it) spilt across his body.

The _Sword_ was still far from tip-top condition. Deathbringers were sticklers for keeping their equipment well maintained.

But, upon his return to Lycurgas, Varrel had been more than a little put out when he discovered that his parent chapter's attitudes to the machines that chose to work under them was very matter-of-fact. They were not treated with the reverence that was their due. But the continued devotions of the tech adepts were encouraged, and for that at least, Varrel was grateful.

Another 40,000 volts passed through his system, and he stifled another curse. Then the lights flicked on, and a whine was heard as the subsection's power was restored.

"Amen" he said, making the sign of the aquilae, before closing the panel and standing up.

He didn't bother to report it.

The bridge's systems would register the restored power. Or, more likely, no one would notice. They were getting there. At least the ship was now combat capable, even if it was a mess. Many chapters would leave it at that. But not the Deathbringers, and not Techmarine Varrel. He and his brothers and the servitors that served them would continue to work until the _Sword of Lycurgas _was the clean, gleaming, proud ship that it should be.

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Ryalak watched with no small measure of trepidation. He hated waiting, although he had patience. He hated, more than that, waiting for the Federation to get back to him. Hated being beholden to the Federation. Hated that he was outgunned by the Federation ships. Hated that a vessel the size of the one around which his ship was moving was crewed by humans. Hated that he couldn't do a thing about it, and hated that he was in a position were so much generated hate.

Contrary to popular belief, Romulans were necessarily a violent people. They just didn't eschew its utility. What was life without passion, or emotion, if not empty? And no Romulan wanted an empty life. But he'd be lying if he said that that monstrous ship didn't scare him. Based on power output projections, it could defeat the entirety of the Romulan Navy. Piecemeal.

If, as Centurion Ree suggested, it WAS a Federation plot, then it was a needless one. The Federation already outgunned them by a significant margin. Whether they knew that and/or intended that was the issue.

And, in essence, Ryalak was feeling left out. He believed Picard when he said, or more properly, when he implied, that he was clueless as to what was going on. That meant that something big was happening, right next to his bloody ship, and not a whisper of it was getting back. Then the intermittent transporter traffic. Power fluctuations on the _Sword of Lycurgas_ greater than the _Minnkash'Maen_'s total output.

The Praetor was concerned. As she should be. But she was relying on him to give her the answers, and he wasn't able to give them yet. His professionalism was the cornerstone of Ryalak's performance. He had no political connections. He had no patron in the senior ranks. But he _had_ come to the attention of Praetor Donatra for his exemplary performance. She had needed, solid, reliable commanders and subcommanders. It had been a fortunate co-incidence that his vessel had been nearest to the incident when it occurred. Or was it? He might yet find that situation to be the breaking of his career as a Romulan Officer. Or it just might kill him.

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Picard would have scratched his head, if that wouldn't have given away his state of perplexity. They knew next to nothing about this Imperium. He was about to attempt what would quite possibly be the most sensitive negotiations of his life.

"Brother-Captain, would I be able to bring over some equipment from my ship? The things that must be discussed also have to be illustrated, and it'd be easier to use our equipment to do so."

Haruman waved his hand easily, belying the weight of the armour.

"Of course, go right ahead."

Picard nodded curtly, and tapped his commbadge.

"Picard to Enterprise."

"_Enterprise here, go ahead, sir."_

"Could you beam to my location a portable holo-projector. I want to show our hosts something."

"_Yes, sir. We'll send it over as soon as we dig it up."_

"Good. Picard out."

He levelled his gaze again on the Brother-Captain.

"Brother-Captain, that communication that I received on the _Enterprise_ was, as you probably heard, from Admiral Janeway, the head of Starfleet Operations. She relayed some very serious news, that is going to play on our conversation."

Haruman nodded. He had suspected as much.

"Go on."

Picard took a breath, then begun.

"We have been told to, on behalf of the United Federation of Planets, officially request your assistance."

Haruman nodded, unaware that Bortalus was doing exactly the same thing several feet to his left. The strange circumstances notwithstanding, it wasn't too dissimilar to the request that had been made of him by the Imperial Navy a scant six months ago.

"What is it that you require of us, Captain?"

"We need your help in defending the Federation against a hostile fleet, Brother-Captain. One we are incapable of defeating on our own."

Haruman cocked his head fractionally to one side. His countenance didn't change, but his insides were in turmoil. Picard wouldn't have been asked to ask if the situation were not dire. But he needed more information. Who knows? Picard might in actual fact have been fighting an early forerunner of the Imperium…

"Could you be more specific?"

"_Enterprise to Picard"._

"Picard here, go ahead."

"_We've found it sir. Ready to beam over."_

"Very good. Send when ready."

The characteristic blue matrix fuzzed into tinkling existence, solidifying into the Federation standard LCARS holo-projector. Picard bent down, and pulled a panel out from the machine.

A series of rapid finger movements, beeps and bleeps and the projector whirred to life, portraying a small star system of 14 planets, revolving slowly around a yellow primary.

"This, Brother-Captain, is the Bajor system. It was a key system throughout a recently concluded war with the Dominion."

The view of the system zoomed out to show the wider galaxy. A pale outline showed the boundary of Federation space. Bajor still blinked red.

"Highlighted here is the territory claimed by the Federation. Bajor, as you can see, is here, to the galactic north, near the boundary of Federation space. In fact, Bajor is coming up for Federation membership."

The map lit up in various places again, a deep maroon red on the starfield background.

"This is the Cardassian Union. Until relatively recently, the Cardassians occupied Bajor, and had done for fifty years. However, when the occupation ended, the Bajorans asked for, and received, Federation assistance in reconstruction. The Cardassian Government, while hostile, did not seek war in its own right."

Picard paused, looking at the three senior marines.

"That changed with the discovery of the Bajoran wormhole, the first known stable wormhole."

The holo-projector image shifted again, zooming back into the Bajoran system. A stylised yellow vortex began to flash.

"This wormhole was unique, because of its stability. A reconnaissance team from Deep Space 9, a former Cardassian mining station converted to a Federation starbase, was sent through to ascertain its location."

The map zoomed out once more, and a yellow line moved up from the Bajor system, finally stopping at another red spot, on the other side of the projection.

"It lead to the other side of the galaxy, an area of space we call the "gamma quadrant. Shortly after arrival, we encountered the major power of the gamma quadrant, which we came to know as the Dominion."

The area of space indicated turned scarlet red. "It wasn't long before the Cardassians, weakened by several unsuccessful engagements with the Klingons, …"

A portion of the projection turned grey.

"…offered the Dominion an alliance. That alliance began a rapidly escalating cold war."

He paused again, and looked at his officers. Many were stony faced. Picard's intent was obvious, and by his words, his men had guessed what Janeway had said. All of them had participated in the Dominion War. All of them had had friends, sometimes family, die in that conflict. And none of them wanted to revisit those memories.

Too bad.

Better revisiting the memories than revisiting the devastation.

"The cold war became hot. Starfleet officers on Deep Space 9 managed to set up a minefield at the mouth of the wormhole. This prevented, for a time the Dominion from sending more ships through the wormhole, into the Alpha Quadrant."

Red arrows moved out from Cardassian space into the Federation.

"Nevertheless, the Cardassian-Dominion alliance launched a number of devastating attacks, utilising what they had in theatre. Many planets were lost to invasion. Several smaller colonies were exterminated. Starfleet and the Klingon Empire were hard pressed to hold what space we had."

Picard's eyes refocussed onto the holo-image, and he remembered looking at similar images during the war, when they had a far more ominous overtone. Now, it was just a dark piece of history. But just seeing the flickering images conjured up memories.

"We had the advantage, however, so long as the minefield held. We were still producing ships, faster than the Cardassians could, and with the Dominion cut off, we began to push them back."

The red markings were countered and pushed back by blue and grey movements.

"Until we received word from sympathetic personnel at Deep Space Nine that the Cardassians were on the edge of bringing down the minefield. The Dominion despatched a fleet as soon as it went offline."

Picard's voice had gone grim.

"Another officer managed to run the blockade, and convince the entities that control the wormhole to prevent the Dominion armada from transiting to the alpha quadrant. They were unable to destroy the armada. They were however, able to displace it, temporally."

Picard could almost see light bulbs above the heads of the space marines.

"Two more powers entered that war. The Breen Confederacy, who fought alongside the Cardassian-Dominion Alliance, and the Romulan Star Empire, who joined us after a Dominion agent killed one of their ambassadors. At the last battle of the war, Cardassian resistance elements engineered a Cardassian defection. The Dominion retaliated. 800 million Cardassian citizens were killed by the Dominion. The Dominion, unable to beat us into subjugation, agreed to a peace treaty in exchange for medical technology that prevented the death of their senior heirachy."

Picard ran his fingers over another couple of buttons.

"Which brings us to our current situation. Information just in from Starfleet command indicates that the temporal displacement of the Dominion armada is ending. Now. That Dominion armada is coming through the wormhole."

Haruman hadn't moved, and appeared interested, although not impressed. Picard continued.

"We need your help, Brother-Captain."

Haruman's face was impassive.

"Convince me, Captain. There are thousands of people on this ship."

"There are billions of people in the Federation, Brother-Captain. To say nothing of the Klingons and the Romulans. Billions more. Hundreds of planets. They will all fall to the Dominion."

"You defeated them once before, I'm sure you can do so again."

"We fought a war, Brother-Captain. A war which we were lucky to fight to a standstill."

Picard's voice was short, clipped and loud.

"That war was the most destructive war fought for centuries. Millions lost, nearly two thousand starships. Many Federation worlds captured. Entire races oppressed."

Haruman pondered this again, briefly, before replying, his deep voice not unsympathetic.

"Captain, my company, and my ship have first priority. I will not risk them to fight someone else's war."

"There are thousands of ships coming through that wormhole. This war will destroy the Federation."

"It's not the Imperium's war."

"But it IS HUMANITY'S."

The voice cut through the Brother-Captain's relaxed stance and the man sat upright. Haruman's voice was tight and forced through pursed lips, his anger plain to see. It was nearly ten seconds before the apoplectic marine spoke again.

"Captain. I've been fighting wars for centuries. I've watched planets burn. I've seen millions eaten and crushed the life out of men and xenos with my bare hands. I've fought daemons that would turn you into a terrified gibbering wreck, and spat on their disintegrating corpses. I've slaughtered beyond counting, in the name of the Emperor and humanity, for the entirety of my adult life, so don't YOU DARE TELL ME WHAT IS AND ISN'T MY WAR."

The towering marine loomed over Picard a full head taller and twice as wide. And he was seething. Picard's voice, by contrast, had become whisper quiet. But Picard had the opening he had sought. He had the reaction, and the indignation that he had been looking for. The crucial piece of the Deathbringer's intellectual jigsaw that defined his priorities.

"Brother-Captain, it is the _Federation's_ war, and by extension, here, now, it is _humanity's_ war, and if we do not fight it then the war will be lost, and mankind will be lost with it."

Before another thought crossed his mind, Picard had the unique sensation of being entirely weightless before he slammed into a plasteel wall.

Keenan had his hand phaser half-way out of its holster before he found himself looking down the barrel of Bortalus' plasma pistol, held unwavering at the Federation officer's eye-level.

"Don't."

The voice wasn't raised. Indeed, it was calm, almost serene. But there was no mistaking its intent. The complete lack of inflection in the librarian's voice convinced Keenan that the man ahead of him wouldn't bat an eyelid before pulling the trigger. Keenan raised his left hand in supplication, palm open, before easing his hand phaser back down.

The black armoured, death-masked chaplain had his bolt-pistol out, held at arms length towards the other Federation officers. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to.

Haruman walked up to Picard, and stood over him.

"You consort with xenos. You do not fear the Emperor. You waste your resources. You sputter about in tiny boats and sit high and mighty upon gilded thrones, talking of peace, co-existence and tolerance."

Haruman spat to his left, the globule of saliva sizzling as it contacted the floor. No one noticed.

"Fools, all of you. The rewards of tolerance are treachery and betrayal. And you insult me, my company, and my chapter by implying that we would not fight to defend humanity. Either that, or you insult our intelligence by implying we are too stupid to know what is humanity's war, and what isn't. If I weren't a Deathbringer, I might well have already killed you for that alone."

Haruman paused a little, and the rage seemed to dissipate from his body like sweat evaporating from a lion's flanks. The Deathbringer leant down, and offered his armoured hand.

"But I am a Deathbringer, and your words have uncomfortable merit."

Picard grasped the gauntlet, and felt himself pulled to his feet. He wiped some blood from the corner of his mouth, before the brother-captain spoke again.

"I will not apologise, Picard. You have indeed insulted us. But your words may have been accurate, nonetheless. Take your men, and get off my ship. I will give you our answer when I am good and ready."

The Federation officer walked to his men, painfully aware that chances were good that at least one rib had broken.

"Are you alright, sir?"

La Forge was speaking, but it sounded detached.

"I've had worse, commander."

Picard tapped his commbadge.  
"Picard to _Enterprise_."

"_Enterprise here, go ahead, sir."_

"Five to beam up."

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"You hit him across the room?"

"I did."

"Brother-Captain… Sir... Ed... Why did you hit the man across the room?"

"He insulted me, he insulted the company, and he insulted the chapter. I lost my temper."

Brother-Sergeant Shenyavin looked at Haruman as if the senior officer had grown a second head. He hadn't believed the report that had come to him via one of the brother-lieutenants. But then, here was the man himself, saying the same thing.

"Lost your temper? Lost your…"

His voice dropped down. It wouldn't do for the rest of the company to hear this. Not that he really thought they would.

"You lost your temper? When does this happen? Brother, do you actually expect me to believe that you just lost your temper?"

Haruman remained silent.

"Ed, you could have killed him."

"He insulted the chapter."

"He insulted _YOU_, Ed. That's what got to you. And you know what I think? I think he was RIGHT, and that's why it hurt. Emperor knows I haven't the slightest idea what it was about, but I'll be damned if you reacted like that unless he was right."

Haruman didn't reply then either. But the words had hit home. Because Michael Shenyavin was right. And by extension, so was Jean-Luc Picard.

Bortalus had been talking to the chaplain. The latter of which, Haruman noticed, had now removed his skull-mask.

The pair of them had heard Shenyavin's comment.

And the chaplain at least agreed with them.

And he was smirking.

At him.

Not that strangers would be able to tell. But the old chaplain was definitely smirking at him. Not for a long, long time had Brother-Captain Edward Haruman felt quite as embarrassed as he did now. But he swallowed his discomfort. They still had work to do.

"Brothers, what do you say to the Federation's request? Even if they did make a meal of the request itself."

The marines chuckled. Haruman ruefully acknowledging that ALL of the chuckles were directed AT rather than BY him… Bortalus was the first to respond.

"The cards were non-specific, brother. Alien humans, though. Interesting co-incidence."

Haruman nodded, then looked at Shenyavin, who shrugged. The ease of the motion belied the weight of armour he was moving.

"Humans being attacked by aliens. Sounds like a mandate to me."

"Brother-Chaplain?"

Hensher, the second oldest marine on the ship, didn't answer for a number of seconds, and Haruman was about to ask again when the greying veteran replied.

"As the brother-librarian hinted, it's a remarkable coincidence, isn't it, young Haruman? We, of all chapters, are sent back 38,000 years into our past, where humans in an interstellar alliance just happen to desperately need help. Help that we are now, by complete chance, perfectly able to render."

Haruman nodded at the chaplain's words.

"Thank you, brothers. Let us withdraw to the chapel. We are overdue for our prayers."

The marines, save Hensher, bowed, and turned.

Haruman stood where he was for a number of seconds, then spun on his heels, and followed them.

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"Doctor, I really need to go."

Doctor Crusher looked down at Jean-Luc, lying on his back in sickbay.

"Jean-Luc, you're not fit enough yet. You still have a concussion, fluid in your lungs, and your ribs haven't fully healed. Give the osteo-regenerator time to work. You're lucky you didn't lose both lungs at once."

"Doctor, I really am fine, I…"

A coughing fit interrupted and somewhat weakened his protestations.

"No, Jean-Luc, you are not fine. And what are you going to do? Nothing can be done until their captain gets back to us."

"I must inform the Admiral, doctor. We need…"

He coughed again, a wet hack that sounded as sick as it was.

"We need to inform command that there has been an unexpected delay."

"Commander Yee is ahead of you on that. He's a very capable officer, Jean Luc. You should put more faith in him."

Picard didn't respond immediately. The thought had occurred to him, more than once, while he lay awake in his quarters. Commander Yee was indeed very capable. Diligent. Knowledgable. So why wasn't Picard trusting him to do his job, while he was in command?

"He just seems to have so little experience, Beverley."

Doctor Crusher laughed.

"You mean, he's just not Will Riker, don't you, Captain?"

Picard smiled, which almost brought about another cough. He stifled it, and sighed softly.

"That might have something to do with it, doctor."

Beverley smiled. A smile that always warmed Picard's heart at the same time as it fired his sense of guilt. Bittersweet, indeed.

"Go on, Jean-Luc. But light duties only."

He cocked an eyebrow at her, trying not to wince as he sat up. She was right his ribs _were_ tender.

"I mean it, Captain. Light. Don't make it any worse."

"Thank you, Beverley. I'll try not to have any more Imperial marines throw me across rooms."

She laughed as he walked out of the sickbay. Her smile faded after the door closed. Jean-Luc was pushing himself too hard. Again.

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Picard waited until he reached his quarters before his pain came through to his features. He painstakingly removed his dress uniform - pain being the operative part of the phrase – and for the first time had a good look at the multitude of discolourations along his torso.

Deep blue, black and pink-red were the predominant colours, although they would shortly be fading.

He was getting too old for this.

Then Picard thought of the millennia old warship from another age. Of the soldiers aboard it, fighting for their masters for centuries at a time. No, he wasn't old.

Nor was the Federation he served. On the contrary. Humanity, the Federation, and him, were new, young, vibrant and optimistic. The Imperium, by contrast, was not.

The Imperium, that those men aboard that ship served, was not young. It had existed, if that enormous vessel was any evidence, for thousands of years. Had been at war, so it appeared, for centuries, at least. It was barbaric, pitiless, repressive and militaristic, the polar opposite of the Federation. What a dreadful circumstance it was that had now forced the Federation to seek help from the Imperium?

Picard didn't need to answer himself. He already knew, although didn't admit it to himself.

Admiral Janeway's words, spoken with such a depth of conviction, held in them that which would save and damn the galaxy in equal measure.

_Any way possible._

That was the key.

_Any way possible._

The temporal prime directive, thrown by the wayside.

_Any way possible._

Biological warfare against the Dominion.

_Any way possible._

The attempted relocation of the B'aku.

_Any way possible._

Telepathic violation of the Reman Viceroy at Picard's direct behest.

_Any way possible._

When their backs were to the wall, the Federation's vaunted principles had collapsed before the onslaught of circumstance.

_Any way possible._

The words and thoughts upon which the Federation would fall, and upon which the Imperium would stand. Picard's dark ship's utility overalls slid over his battered body as dark thoughts slid through his racing mind.

_Any way possible._

Machiavellian ideas that had brought about the worst atrocities in history. And, yet, here they were. Picard felt sick. And not just from the injuries he'd taken. He'd violated his own principles, and starfleet guidelines, with nary a twitch of protest. And if he could, who else would? Weight of darkness yet to come presses down on Picard's soul, and a chill of bleak certainty knots in the pit of his stomach.

"_Bridge to Picard."_

Commander Yee's voice.

"Picard here, go ahead, commander."

"_The Sword of Lycurgas is hailing us, sir."_

"On my way."


	24. From the belly of the beast

Many apologies about the formatting muck up last chapter. I submitted it the same way I always do, but this time it seems to have decided that it didn't like me.

Pray for Iraq. It needs it.

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liljimmyurine: No, the jumbled mess was not intentional. Well, the jumbling wasn't. The mess was. And yes, scruples, generally speaking, die painfully when confronted by expediency. Our principles are only worth something if we stick to them when they are _in_convenient.

That Idiot: I do. It irritates me immensely. I'd offer you something for that brain bleed. But, to be honest, I don't think two panadols will help much for that.

Teal: My formatting died, yes. I believe I have covered that. Thank you for pointing that out, nonetheless, and the interest in my work that precludes that assessment.

Lennox RH: Picard and Haruman, to my mind, are both interesting characters. To make a confrontation between them uninteresting would demean both of them. I try hard on my interactions between the two, and any suggestions are appreciated…

The Mad Mad Reviewer: Eyes bleeding… same as the panadols comment I made to That Idiot (no offence intended, Idiot… although that didn't quite come out right, either). Oh, and does the "my eyes bleed" reference have anything to do with the wonderful works of Tim Buckley?

HolyKnight: Formatted. Editted. And, just 'cos you asked so nicely, also UPDATED. Yay me.

Grayangle: In a manner of speaking, they were encountered by a savage beast. The savage beast that is their own psyche. For only in one's deepest self is the truth of what we can be, and, without exception, that truth is terrible to bear.

Oh, and I'm tempted to enter the _Leonidas_ into Andy's Battlefleet Gothic 'Character Ship' competition. Any thoughts you're able or willing to share on that?

Not Happy: Be happy.

Leutan Drake: The _Reagan_ was in Brisbane a couple of weeks ago. Not a bad ship. Shame it's not ours… Story now reformatted.

I take this interlude to ask all who read this, who here is also serving in one of the world's great militaries?

Malac645: Books… expensive and time consuming things to produce. But worthy of thought. And, hey, independent thought. Makes for a more interesting writing experience. If the characters aren't acting in…. character (grumbles at own wording) then they're not grumble characterful…

Duken: While zeal is it's own reward, and blessed the mind too small for doubt, so it can also be argued that the fortress that locks and bars its gates will starve. Deathbringers may open the fortress that is their mind, but the gate's guards are fearsome, and the garrison formidable. Your eyes have my sympathies for their burny-ness. If you require replacements, I have several volunteers.

Shinova: Thank you. It's good to see regulars. People like you have earned the right to change the course of this story by your input. People like you that keep the stories chugging along (however sporadically) by the combinations of flattery and cajolery (the former preferred). Keep up the input, and I'll keep up the story.

LegacyZero: I bow before your words, in both pride and humility. Thank you. As I said to Shinova, comments like that stir the heart and fire the mind. Praise be to Him.

Huh: Imperial transporters can penetrate poorly shielded areas of ships, can they? Can anyone confirm this? It may be useful if this is the case…

Sithspawn: Ok. Here you go then :) sooner than last time… an UPDATE.

Anonymousnamelessreviewerwithablankname: Very cool indeed. And not too dissimilar from the conceptualisation of this piece, but with a twist…

That Swedish guy: I to have scratched my head in disbelief at Federation (and Romulan. And Klingon. And Breen. And Cardassian. And Ferengi. And Trill. And Bajoran. And, and, and, and…) incompetence with regards to the Borg. Here's a thought. Small, high-yield explosive devices. Teleport multiple away teams to many points throughout the cube. Plant explosives. Recover teams. Detonate the explosives. Crack open the old stockpiles of projectile weapons if required.

Worf would be very unfamiliar with the sensation, but would be in that boat, yes. Space Marines are… physically adept in a way that the actual tabletop game doesn't often justify.

Duckmasta2020: Ok. I will update. Soon. Right now, in fact…

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"_Herald Lead confirms, all units have deployed ordnance. _"

The sixteen gunships circled the drop zone again, less than a hundred metres above the ground, and below the firing range of the tyranid anti-air units. The ground around the embattled Templar 5th Cohort was raked with heavy bolter fire.

"_Eagle Lead copies, Herald Lead. We are go for extraction."_

_"Stand by, Eagle Lead."_

Lysander was frantically trying to get the attention of his bird's pilot. Without co-ordination, the extraction could turn into a drawn-out farce, or, worse, a blue-on-blue firefight.

_"Eagle Lead, Death Two Zero Alpha recommends establishing comms with remaining ground elements."_

The Deathbringer commander chuckled to himself. He could almost see Revinius smacking himself in the –

His arms flew sideways and braced him against the side of the gunship as something slammed into the hull armour.

"Report."

_"Gargoyles on suicide runs, sir."_

Lysander blinked twice. He'd heard reports of gargoyles doing such things, but had dismissed them as observation errors.

Obviously not.

He turned in his seat to the left to look out the viewport.

Then flinched back before another of the creatures crashed into the armoured window, bathing it in flame as its innards combusted on contact with the oxygen.

The sixteen gunships circled clockwise again, thousands of heavy bolter rounds stitching across the ground. Lysander could almost feel the gunners' satisfaction as they drew lines of death through the horde.

The effect was devastating. A napalm strike followed by bolter scouring. Standard procedure. But devastating nonetheless.

He could almost hear the cheers from the ground as his bird flew low over the embattled, but alive, marines of the Templar 5th.

The flames of the napalm bombs were still burning waist high, when the first Thunderhawks slammed into the ground.

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Brother-Optio Kedron was one of the few still on his feet when the fires came. The breathing space offered to them was unexpected, spectacular, and very, very welcome. He spat a mouthful of blood to the putrid earth, and slid his plasma pistol into his mag-holster, not realising how hot the weapon had become, even when the holster began to smoulder. He was distantly thankful that the genestealer had left him at least one arm. And he thanked the Emperor that he'd followed that Dark Angel's recommendation at swapped his bolt-pistol for the plasma he was using.

Changing magazines in the middle of a melee with only one arm would have been challenging.

"What the blazes?"

"Good use of words, brother."

Kedron saw Brother-Legionnaire Caecilius reload his bolter. Shame the younger marine couldn't put his missing leg in as easily as he'd put that 30-round clip into the weapon. Caecilius had been firing from a sitting position for at least twenty minutes.

The firing of the 5th Cohort was petering out. They'd forced the Tyranids back.

Kedron corrected himself. The 5th hadn't forced the Tyranids back. Whatever Emperor-sent miracle had dropped those napalm bombs had. The 5th was lucky to be technically still alive.

The flames around them began to die, and Kedron heard the roar of engines over the roar of the fires. He looked skyward, as noise began to rise around him.

And added his voice to those of his brothers as a black thunderhawk cruised low overheard.

A deep, booming, metallic voice was heard behind him, as Elder-Centurion Crassus, devoid of weaponry and missing a leg, spoke.

"What is it, Brother-Optio?"

Kedron turned towards the dreadnought, a grim smile on the squad-commander's face.

"Thunderhawks, Elder."

He faced back towards the area the gunships were moving to, then spoke again, certain that the old dreadnought would excuse the impropriety.

"Many thunderhawks, Elder. Some bearing our cross, and others the lambda of Lycurgas."

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Revinius' was the first foot to touch solid ground. He led the Templar units from the _Triarius, _arriving at a jog at the head of his squad. Deathbringer and Templar units fanned out around the 5th's old perimeter, while black-clad thunderhawks traced lazy, menacing circles overhead.

The Brother-Centurion's voice was clear as it rang out across the battlefield, even while grief flared in his heart at so many dead brothers.

"Legionnaires of the 5th, who is the senior brother here?"

The few moments of silence told Revinius a great deal.

Lucinius was dead. Or, if not dead, then no longer conscious, at the very least. So was the designated senior brother-optio.

More. No one had answered. There was no coherent command in place. The cohort had been _that_ close to being over-run.

"I am, brother-centurion."

A brother-optio had stepped forward, right arm missing just above the elbow.

"And I am damn happy to see you here, sir."

Revinius grinned, in spite of the seriousness.

"Can't have you lot stealing all the honour, can we?"

There was a ripple of amusement, partly drowned out as another Deathbringer thunderhawk rumbled over them.

"We don't have long. Everyone to the thunderhawks. Ours or Deathbringer, it doesn't matter. Take your squad mates. No one will be left behind, and all, alive or dead, will return to Nadgazad with us."

Kedron grinned inside his helmet, and nodded.

"Can your men get our wounded and dead to the ships, sir?"

Revinius nodded.

"Yes, you've done your part, marine. Get your cohort onboard."

Autosensors met Revinius' eyes and understanding flowed.

"No one, sir."

"No one, brother-optio."

Kedron nodded, the semi-spoken promise made.

"5th Cohort, mount up."

The remaining walking marines of the 5th moved off as one, headed for the gunships. Kedron looked as they departed.

The Templar optio ranged his eyes over his men as they moved onto the transports.

18 of them. 19, including him.

Emperor almighty.

He looked left, and saw a pair of Deathbringer thunderhawks, and another Templar bird, land on the other side of the flames.

Saw the apothecaries running from them.

Saw Revinius barking orders to his cohort, as they spread out, and helped wounded back onto the birds.

Saw one of the Lycurgan Techmarines arguing with one of the Templar ones about how best to move Elder-Centurion Crassus.

But did not see his commander.

Where was Lucinius?

.Kedron's stomach sank past his knees.

His commander had been Kedron's mentor as long as Kedron had fought for the chapter. Since he joined as an initiate a bare hundred and twenty or so standard years past.

Kedron had been born into slavery on Titicus VII, son of a slave, and thus a slave himself. Orks had come, and swept aside the under-resourced PDF of the planet. The Dark Templar strike cruiser _Spatha_ was transiting the area, and picked up the world's distress signal.

They'd ended the attack with typical Astartes panache.

And Lucinius had taken interest in a slave boy that had killed a Goff Nob with a knife.

The Dark Templars were the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Kedron had been a scout attached to Lucinius' cohort, when he'd technically been part of the 10th. Had swelled with pride when the Brother-Centurion had inducted him into the 5th Cohort itself, under the man Kedron would have called 'father', if he could.

And again when he rose from Brother-Legionnaire to Brother-Optio. Gnaeus had been a superb marine. But he'd died, nevertheless. One ork gunshot too many had hit his armour. And so Kedron had advanced again. Stepping into a dead man's shoes.

That phrase stuck in his throat.

Stepping into a dead man's shoes.

A sudden, sickening, but all too real feeling settled into his intestines when he saw one of the Lycurgan apothecaries wave one his Templar comrades, and then one of the techmarines, over.

Revinius had asked "_Legionnaires of the 5th, who is the senior brother here_?"

Kedron had answered, stepping forward.

Stepping forward, into a dead man's shoes.

The pain of his absent arm was nothing to the pain in his hearts.

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Pain.

The universe was a solid white pain.

So much pain that it wasn't really hurting any more.

Everything appeared to throb rhythmically, to a strange staccato double beat.

White.

Blinding pain, so much pain that it was a blanket, warmth, almost comforting in its constancy.

White.

Should he hear the Emperor?

Was he dead?

He genuinely didn't know.

But, it occurred to him, he was asking the question, so he guessed that meant that he probably wasn't dead.

He tried to focus his eyes on something. Anything. But nothing happened. He didn't know whether it was from the white-hot pain coursing through his veins, leaving him in a constant state of agony, or whether it was because there was nothing to focus on, or even whether his eyes were still there or not.

And the silence. The silence was remarkable. Not a sound. Nothing stirred, save the pounding throb of, well, everything.

Time was passing, of that he was sure.

How much, and how fast, and in what manner, he had no concept.

Something moved him. Not that he was certain how, or in what manner, solely that the agony developed a focal point, then moved around, before settling into a swaying rhythm separate from the pulsing that had already begun.

He knew he was moving by the way the agony was rearranging itself.

For some reason, he found that remarkably funny.

So he began to laugh. A sputtering, gurgling chuckle rich in hyper-oxygenated blood and confusing the two apothecaries that were trying to carry him onto one of the waiting thunderhawks.

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Revinius looked towards the horizon. It looked like it was moving. It, in actuality, both was and wasn't. The horizon itself wasn't moving. The only way it would was if the planet's crust was being subjected to a high-intensity orbital bombardment.

Which, unfortunately as far as Revinius was concerned, was not happening. An orbital bombardment would be rather pleasant, at that moment, as it happened…

However, the horizon was covered, as far as the eye could see in all directions, by a veritable sea of Tyranids.

So, in that light, the horizon was moving.

"What do you think?"

Revinius' thoughts were interrupted by Lysander. Cool as ever. Revinius stole a glance over his right shoulder. The man's eyes were roving over the same picture that Revinius had been observing. And didn't seem even slightly concerned.

"I think it's going to be an interesting debrief. The 5th Cohort is going to need years to recover. And a new commander.

"That brother-optio looked competent enough."

"Kedron? Lucinius' protégé. Yes, he's competent. Very much so. Quite young for a Centurion, though."

"He's the best of what's left of that cohort, brother."

Revinius nodded. Lysander had a point.

"It's not really my call to make."

"Horse-shit".

Revinius was so taken back, for the first time in years, he didn't have a pithy rejoinder.

"Pardon…"

"Horse-shit, brother. What you just told me, brother. It's a load of horse-shit."

Revinius narrowed his eyes at the Deathbringer officer. Lysander was pushing the bounds of civility with a comment like that, and both officers knew it.

"Explain yourself, brother."

Lysander looked squarely back at Revinius, and let his eyes bore into him for a couple of seconds before he continued.

"Brother-Centurion. Brother. Revinius. We are in a combat zone. A hot one. Do you honestly mean to tell me that the field promotion you grant to the senior surviving member of the 5th Cohort will be overturned when you get back to Nadgazad? Because if that optio is half as competent as he appears, and half as competent as Lucinius seemed to think, then he'd probably be the agreed choice in any case."

The pause was drawn out. Not a silence. There was far too much going on around the two marines for there to be any genuine silence. Lysander spoke again.

"Well, brother, want to know what else I think?"

Revinius closed his eyes. Lysander's tone told him much of the content of his thoughts, before he voiced them, his rumble of a baritone making itself very obvious.

"No."

Lysander hurrumffed.

"Thought you might say that. So I'm going to ignore that, and tell you anyway."

Revinius nodded slowly. He'd figured as much before he'd answered.

"Brother-Centurion, I think we are going to have an exceptionally rough ride back into orbit."

Revinius looked back at Lysander, then moved his own view, following the Deathbringer's gaze.

Eyes acute enough to put a hawk to shame scoured the terrain to their front. Dozens of different Tyranid subspecies were seen and dismissed by the Dark Templar officer before he focussed on one of the creatures the Deathbringer was referring to.

The creature looked like a six-legged onion. Save for the fact that the onion-shaped abdomen glowed a weak blue-green.

Tyranid surface to air defences.

Rough ride into orbit, indeed.

"Ideas?"

Lysander winced. There were three broad options, none of them especially satisfactory.

"We can attack the air defence sites from the ground. Option 1. We can launch defence suppression operations prior to making a break for orbit. That's option 2. Or, option 3, we can just power on out at full burn, and hope that they miss."

"Hobbes' choice, by the sound of it. We're liable to get burned either way."

Lysander directed a scowl at his Templar comrade. The phrase was a little too close to the mark.

A resounding clang behind the two marines had them both half ducking and turning, to see three techmarines trying to get a badly damaged dreadnought sarcophagus into one of the birds.

Several dozen marines lowered bolters and continued getting the wounded on board, as the two commanders watched the Tyranids moving.

The sun dipped a little further, and the blazing light, bending through the atmospheric pollution, shone a fiery red into the faces of the two men. Lysander raised his arm to block out the glare. Revinius squinted.

The moment stretched, and both enjoyed the companionship even as their minds roared along probability paths. Revinius spoke first.

"A ground attack, and we'll end up fighting every Tyranid on the planet."

Lysander nodded once, then injected a comment of his own.

"And if we attack the triple-A from the air, we'll just get hit by more of it, that we can't see yet."

"Straight up then?"

Lysander nodded again.

"Aye, brother. Looks that way. Straight up like a bat out of warp."

Revinius looked at his battle-brother.

"See you in orbit."

"Aye brother. Be careful."

Revinius scoffed, as he turned and began marching back towards the gunship.

"Careful, brother? I'm not the pilot. I commend my body and soul to the Emperor, and pray that he lets me continue my service to Him."

Lysander mentally shrugged to himself. Revinius was right. He'd just have to trust to the Emperor.

He spat onto the ground on the way back to the thunderhawk.

_Bloody pollution._

But he knew, even as he cursed millennia of Imperial development, that the reason for the sizzling globule had nothing to do with air quality.

And the Deathbringer also knew that there was something they _could_ do to make their departure that much easier. An ancient weapon design, ancient and terrible, from before the dawn of human space flight, with which he could wreak terrible vengeance on the Devourer of worlds.

It wasn't much by the standards of the Imperial Navy. But, on a planet's surface, it made a hell of a bang. Marines never used them within a planet's atmosphere. Not that Lysander could fathom why. Orbital bombardment was seen as acceptable. So why not like this?

Destruction. Mankind's specialty, and the modus operandi of the Imperium.

Adaptable, cunning, fiendish, nightmarish creatures that they were… Tyranids still could not match mankind for sheer destructive force.

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The fifteen thunderhawks were powering up once more. The remnants of the 5th Cohort, plus their support, had been loaded up. Not one had been left behind.

It had struck Kedron, mildly uncomfortably, that THAT wasn't out of respect for the bodies of the deceased. As far as the Dark Templars were concerned, a body was just that, and had no special rights or utility, save the progenoids of the fallen.

No, the full cohort was on the thunderhawks, alive and dead, because power armour was a precious, precious commodity. One that marines, where possible, would recover.

That it was possible now was somewhat dubious. But the extra fifteen minutes it'd take to get the dead and injured onboard wasn't going to hurt. The techmarines needed at least that time to get the Dreadnoughts on board, and prepped to go.

Kedron was still getting used to the "I am still alive" part. He really was. He had made his piece with the Emperor, had been prepared to sell his life dearly. Once. Then a second time. Then, out of the blue (or, more technically, the off-bluey-browny sort of colour), salvation had come.

Now they just had to get out. That might be difficult. The ride _in_, to bail out the Icharian PDF, had been hard. Now they had Tyranids on all fronts.

Although admittedly now they had fifteen thunderhawks, rather than the six they'd started with. They'd probably find it easier to do… whatever they were doing. He wasn't so sure of that, either.

Who'd have thought it? The timing had been superb. Deathbringers and Templars, again. Now, well, Kedron strongly suspected that he'd be the next Centurion of the 5th Cohort.

He'd never have believed it possible. Had never aspired to it. Simply being a brother-legionnaire had been satisfaction enough.

But, as he stood at the bottom of the thunderhawk's ramp, and swept his eyes over the patch of ground upon which the 5th had stood and bled, he knew.

Then, his gaze caught and held, first Lysander, then Revinius.

There was no one else outside the transports.

Revinius looked back at Kedron, and nodded, then turned and headed up into his ship.

Kedron looked back out of the thunderhawk, and held the hydraulic rod that supported the ramp, as the powerful engines flared, and lifted the aircraft off the ground.

He slowly shook his head as the bird took off, watching the patch of slick mud that they'd tenaciously held.

_So many._ He thought to himself.

_So many, and for what?_

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As the formation rose, the first blue and green bioplasma blasts soared into the night sky, feeling upwards with deceptive gentleness towards the space marine gunships.

Until a blinding white flash turned every living thing within ten kilometres to ash.

That day, a sun was born, and then died in a cloud of its own making, on the surface of Ichar IV.


	25. Insight

G'day all. Long wait. I moved house. Need more room for the coming birth of my child. Apologies for inconvenience caused.

Here's a chance for another of my rants. Iranian nuclear processing. What a tricky area of international relations.

I don't like the thought of Iran possessing the means to enrich uranium. Call me prejudiced, bigotted or whatnot. But, equally, I don't like the idea that one country can, by right of force, demand compliance from another when it comes to peaceful energygenerating methods, regardless of the suspicions it may have as to the less powerful nation's motives.

Thoughts, everyone?

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Somos: Glad you liked the extraction scene. And it wasn't an orbital bombardment. It was a high-yield nuclear weapon. We have them on contemporary aircraft. No reason an aerospace craft from the 41st millennium could not push one out the back.

Sadgoat: Thank you for the sentiment, and for the warning. If I get banned, then I will repost, and consider the lesson learned. You have first "I told you so" rights :)

blank: Nukes rock. I'd wager that the primary reason for the Imperium's reluctance to use them is the extent of the devastation they cause, and its long term effects. But, against tyranids, I doubt virus bombs are a viable option. Not half as visibly spectacular, either...

The Sithspawn: Here be your required dose of Picardly Harumanic goodness.

Beserk Scarecrow: The Imperium definitely has them. They've been used as anti-ship weapons in the fluff for the old 2nd edition of _Space Hulk_.So they're around. But they're not necessarily all that effective against void shields, so they're not big on that...

Duken: Spot on. Nukes leave a mess. And in this instance, getting a ship, even one as fast and well armed as a strike cruiser, into position would be tough due to the lingering presence of the Hive Fleet.

Dominus Anaetheron: A very flattering review, for which I am... flattered...And nukes are indeed of a far lesser yield than lances. But, as mentioned above, to get into position for a lance strike, the _Leonidas_ would be dangerously close to nearby Tyranid forces. Whereas a nuke can be dropped by a Thunderhawk. And I will definitely keep workin'... maybe slowly... but I will.

grayangle: I always thought that nuclear weapons were feasible for use against the Tyranids. Why ever not? And I ended up not submitting, due to real world time constraints. Perhaps next one...

legacyZero: Good guess on the nuke, lol. And Ichar IV isn't going to produce crops to feed the masses for a good many years to come anyway. Carnifexes. Awkward. But nowhere near as nasty as they were in 2nd edition WH40k. Still damn hard to kill, though.

liljimmyurine: Methinks it was a compluter glitch that zapped any earlier review. It's happened to me more than once. As for identity of wounded marine... that would be telling... Hail the Penguin.

That Swedish guy: Spot on with the calculations. No point using small bombs when the Tyranids cover all ground to the horizon. And if a W5 weapon today has dial-a-yield capability, then I'm sure the Imperium does as well... of course, _Hellfire_ type bombardment missiles (near the top end of the individual weapon yield spectrum) drop 1638.4 teratons (maths and stats available on request) are notably higher than the 800 megaton yield... Apologies for not cranking out this chapter fast enough :(

Huh: The info I read was that Horus lowered his shields so that the Emperor WOULD teleport onto his ship, so Horus could kill him. The Space Wolves and Dark Angels were enroute, and would arrive before the palace fell... so Horus sought to end the siege quickly. However, we do know that the Dominion has hyper-advanced transporter technology, so I'm not sure how to match that up with WH40k terms...

smithklein: I think Imperial shields (by their description as "void shields") are almost an extension of warp energy... but, to be honest, I'm not sure. Incidentally, I wouldn't be surprised if the Imperium isn't sure either...

Shepherds-we-shall-be: Fear not, Brother. The Dominion and Federation will recieve ample demonstration of Imperial righteous anger.

Norsehound: Fear not, Spawn of Fenris, there is method in the madness... The actions of Lysander, Revinius, et al. have purpose in the story line.

malac645: Cheers for the info... haven't the time to enter, but I might next time. By then everyone will probably be sick of hearing about Deathbringers. you like the vibe. It is an interesting ambience to write...

Master Of The Warp: They couldn't use it... Paramount Pictures owns the rights to Star Trek... but thank you for the sentiment.

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Now, on with the story, at long last... phew...

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The atmosphere of the _Sword_ was charged. The Brother-Captain was in a rare bad mood.

Not that Brother-Sergeant Shenyavin thought that he should be in a good mood, per se. He had another timeline-rending decision to make, and had to do so coming hot off having thrown perhaps their only friend in this time across several meters of thin air into a plasteel wall.

The prayers had been conducted by Hensher, as they always were. Deathbringers taught the Imperial creed differently to most. They taught it through love and respect for the Emperor's sacrifice on behalf of mankind that had betrayed Him. Through His sacrifice, mankind was redeemed.

Many taught in favour of mindless obedience. Mindless obedience lent itself to plain mindlessness. And that was not conducive to combat effectiveness. Nor did it sit well with thinking soldiers to be unthinking in their faith. Faith had to be grounded in logic, and it was there that the faith of the Deathbringers stood.

Haruman prayed, as he always had, since he could remember, anyway. Sometimes, on Lycurgas, he'd see old men praying in the open chapels that were found in most of the cities on its surface. Watched them pray earnestly as their bodies fell to the ravages of time.

Lycurgas had one of the highest life expectancies of any planet in the Imperium. The combination of (relatively) unpolluted atmosphere and cutting edge medical facilities made for long life spans.

But when Haruman realised that he had watched three generations of his family be born, mature, have their own children, then age and die… well. Haruman felt old that day.

And he felt old now. He'd snapped at the starfleet officer. The Federationer had played him, of that Haruman was now certain. That still didn't make Haruman's actions permissible, but it rankled.

"…acknowledge death as it approaches, but do not succumb to its touch, for your purpose is great..."

Hensher's practiced words slid easily through the brother-captain's mind, and the responses from his mouth just as effortlessly. The words were grim and uplifting at the same time, the inspiration of fighting alongside your brothers in defence of something great, and in defiance of insurmountable odds.

It was an almost visceral thing, to stand between your foes and the masses of mankind, and know that you are likely to die as a consequence.

But die with honour, nonetheless.

Haruman briefly wondered where that concept had originated, then dismissed the thought. It seemed so indoctrinated into the human psyche that it could almost be genetic. That thought bothered Haruman. There were so many tales and stories and examples of selfless courage amongst mankind that they almost became commonplace.

He remembered watching Mordians hold their ranks, shoulder to shoulder, while the hordes of hell itself had seemed to spill out towards them. Remembered watching almost enviously when that line did not move. Then watched as they executed parade-perfect drill movements in perfect time, bringing their rifles through the ready, then up to the aim, with the first rank kneeling and the second standing. The ensuing fire had been spectacular.

And effective.

Haruman suspected that the formed ranks wouldn't last long against incoming fire, effective though the formation was against enemy that sought to engage them in melee. And there was no doubting that it took courage to stand there.

Was courage part of being human? It couldn't be. Because if it were, then why did so many Imperial forces utilise Commissars to enforce control? Priests to inspire the men with overblown promises of His protection.

No, cowardice was equally part of mankind's collective consciousness. Of mankind's physiological make-up.

In a moment of clarity that shone through centuries of indoctrination, Haruman's eyes popped open from his contemplation. A moment that mirrored countless millions of revelations to the teeming masses of mankind. A moment that, in retrospect, should have come to the aging marine centuries ago.

Courage was not the absence of fear. Haruman, and many marines, had not felt genuine fear for a long, long time, and could, to a great extent, be held to be devoid of courage.

It was something all Space Marines would confront. A test of faith, the test of honour and of dedication. So great was the power of a marine that could fall victim to the sin of pride and consider himself untouchable. He might fight for decades, centuries, and become proud of his ability to lead men in His name. In so doing, no matter how well indoctrinated, he might think himself above that which befalls all men.

It was dangerous, insidious, and terrifyingly hard to resist. But all the more so when the illusion of immortality was finally shattered. All the woes and worries of man coming crashing back upon an unwary and untempered soul. All the combined tests of faith and commitment, slamming into a remarkably naïve psyche.

One would never become a true Space Marine until this trial had been overcome. To overcome it often cost marines their lives. All marines would, at some point, die. Far better to die for Him. No man died for Him that died in vain.

But, with uncomfortable Euclidean logic, Haruman thought of the converse.

No man that died in vain died for Him.

Haruman's company was his to use. But if he stepped wrongly, Haruman risked losing not just everything he had… but everything that _everyone, _in the whole Imperium, had, and everything that everyone in the Imperium was and ever would be.

Temporal distortions. They were not Haruman's idea of a good time. And the high and mighty Adeptus Mechanicus, keepers of the forbidden lore of science and technology, could still tell him nothing.

He had to give Picard an answer. And his senior brothers had given him their suggestions. Unanimously.

So why was it so hard to just acknowledge the wisdom of the position and offer the Federation the Deathbringers' assistance? It wouldn't be the first time that the Deathbringers had assisted non-Imperial forces. Why couldn't Haruman bring himself to say the words?

"…for in the words of the great primarch, Roboute Gulliman, blessed be His name, to admit defeat is to blaspheme against the Almighty Emperor…"

And there it was. The well-timed words of the chaplain's sermon spoke straight into Haruman's heart.

That was why.

Haruman, like many marines, just could not admit that a normal human had gotten the better of him. And somehow, despite all appearances and expectations to the contrary, Picard had done just that.

Brother-Chaplain Hensher had the unique experience of seeing one of the marines in his sermon laughing.

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Less than an hour later, Haruman convened the senior brothers again. They sat at his table, as they had done many times before. He addressed them with his back to them, while he stared out the window at the stars hanging brightly in the black of space.

"Hail the _Enterprise_. Ask them to teleport over at their convenience."

Haruman turned and faced his men, moving slowly to his chair, before leaning forward with both fists resting on the table.

"And I owe all of you an apology. My outburst was both inappropriate, and a bad example to set. I sincerely hope you will not hold it against me in the future, nor think less of me for it."

He slowed, and looked at every marine in turn. None broke his gaze.

"But, most of all, I hope that you will not hold it against Picard, and his crew. They may not be citizens or servants of the Imperium, but they, some of them, at least, are humans, and deserve our assistance, if nothing else. We have all sworn an oath to serve the Emperor, and through Him, to serve all mankind."

Haruman's face turned dark as he continued.

"The Emperor, guardian and guide of Humanity, is not guarding or guiding Humanity at this very moment. We'll have to do that for Him, in His absence."

The brother-captain once again looked carefully at his soldiers, searching carefully for any signs of hesitation or doubt. One last check.

"Does anyone among you have any questions or objections to the course of action that I am about to advocate. Now is the time to tell me. Because, make no mistake, once I make this decision known, the fabric of space and time itself will feel the effects."

The world-jarring surprise that was a space marine brother-captain admitting to error passed without destroying the faith of the senior brothers.

A delicate moment. But Haruman had had quite a few over the centuries…

What was one more impossible miracle anyway?

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Picard observed the Imperial vessel with some trepidation. He'd seen ships. Many of them, in fact. From the barely functional _Phoenix_ that had propelled Zephram Cochrane into the history books, to the frighteningly powerful Reman Warbird _Scimitar_, to the implacable, relentless personification of the Borg that was their cube-ships.

But none came vaguely close to the menace that oozed from the monstrous ship that was the _Sword of Lycurgas_.

They needed that ship. But that didn't mean that he wasn't more than mildly put off by it…

But now, now the moment that they were waiting for had arrived. Unless the Brother-Captain fobbed them off again. That might make for… difficulty in the near future.

But for all his concern over the reaction that the Deathbringers would give, delaying further would not aid him or the Federation at large.

He turned on his heels, and walked briskly for the turbolift.

Crewmembers stood aside as he moved through the corridors and passageways of the _Enterprise._ The instinctive deference was mixed with genuine admiration, and it warmed Picard to see it so plain on the eyes of his crew.

Although he hadn't stated it, Picard was just as conscious of his responsibility to his crew as Haruman was. The implication that he was not was something that the veteran Federation captain had found offensive. Two security officers moved to either side of the corridor, and stood to attention as he walked between them, acknowledging them with a nod.

If he had to make a choice, however, there was no contest. He had a responsibility to the crew, but to the Federation first. And he would do everything he could to get that leviathan of a ship fighting by the Federation's side.

He stepped into the turbolift, doors humming closed behind him.

"Bridge"

Inertial dampeners were wonderful things, he thought. There was no indication of movement within the turbolift, save the readouts, and it was actually moving quite quickly. The doors parted as the turbolift came to a halt, and he moved out onto the warship's bridge.

Many captains still utilised the formalities associated with "captain on the bridge", but Picard thought it was a waste of time, and diverted the crew's attention from their duties. He moved to the centre of the bridge, in front of the Captain's chair.

"Put them on screen, lieutenant."

The starfield default on the main viewscreen switched over to the austere bridge of the _Sword of Lycurgas_. Haruman's imposing, black-clad bulk was now discernible even through the easily manipulable medium of the comm-signal. The bridge of the _Sword_ looked in far better condition than it had.

"Picard here. Go ahead, Brother-Captain."

Haruman fleetingly looked weary, to Picard's eyes. Something that Picard was mildly surprised he was using in connection to one of these 'space marines'. The larger man was stony faced, but alert nevertheless. Picard wondered whether it had been his imagination.

"Captain Picard. We have issues to discuss. But be aware that my advisers and I have decided that we will grant your request. We will assist you in your fight against this 'Dominion', and any other foe that raises its head against mankind."

A weight, awesome in its scope and scarcely bearable in its magnitude lifted itself from the shoulders of the Federation officer. There were muted smatterings of applause, and a couple of laughs.

They'd done it. The _Sword_ would fight for them. Picard, in turn, could not keep the smile from his face, though he restrained it more than most of his bridge crew.

"I, my crew, and the whole Federation thank you from the bottom of our hearts, brother-captain. Countless lives will be…"

Haruman interrupted.

"Save it. We have things to discuss. Could you arrange for myself, and several of my officers to teleport over to your ship?"

Although taken aback, Picard nodded. He wasn't about to jeopardise the immense grace that the Federation had been granted.

"Of course. We will prepare transporter room 2. You are more than welcome to bring as many personnel and as much equipment as is required."

"Acknowledged. Haruman out."

The viewscreen switched back to the white points on black of the starfield.

The captain let out a sigh. And the bridge crew began congratulating each other. Picard brought them short.

"Gentlemen."

The buzz of conversation on the bridge died.

"Well done."

And started up again.

"Commander, you have the bridge. Ask Captain Keenan to join us, at his pleasure, and inform the Romulans that we are preparing to use transporters. Commander La Forge, Lieutenant Brennaman, and a security detail meet me at transporter room 2."

Commander Yee queried the order.

"A security detail, sir? Won't that just show mistrust on our part?"

"No, they will respect the show of strength. Trust me on that. And issue the security team with Type-3 phasers."

The scepticism was plain to hear.

"Type-3 phasers, aye sir."

"Good. Let's go greet our new arrivals, shall we?"

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Keenan had done nothing more than grin when the feed from the _Enterprise_'s communication with the _Sword_ had been relayed to him. T'Marid had been far, far less restrained, punching the air and whooping.

Trills. Strange buggers.

The signal for Keenan to join them on the _Enterprise_ came through shortly afterwards.

"Bridge is yours, commander."

T'Marid turned and looked at his commanding officer, and gave him a giant, ear to ear grin.

"Captains get all the fun."

Keenan laughed to himself as he left the bridge. The day was looking better. Nothing like the largest warship in the quadrant on your side to brighten your whole day.

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Haruman, Bortalus, Varrel and Hensher stood in the main cargo bay of the _Sword_. All were armoured, as they usually were, and armed, as marines always are. The psychological effect of that on their newfound allies was not considered. Nor would it have been heeded, if it had been considered.

"Haruman to _Enterprise_."

"_Picard here, we are ready when you are."_

"Good. We are ready to teleport."

"_Acknowledged. Initiating."_

The four space marines felt the slight skin-crawling sensation of the transporter engage, then watched as their vision faded to black, then brightened again. Haruman had teleported before. Several times, in fact, in the company of Brother-Captain Garrett of the First Company.

And Haruman had despised it. The bone-chilling cold and numbness of deep space, the icy touch of daemons sensing your intrusion into their realm. The frightening and unspoken fear that the system would malfunction and leave the user at the mercies of the warp.

This was positively easy, and left Haruman a fraction disconcerted when he simply rematerialised. The most physically unpleasant aspect of the transport was appearing in the uncomfortably bright surrounds of the Federation ship's transporter room.

"Brother-Captain Haruman. Welcome to the _Enterprise._"

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The cup of coffee in her hand was perhaps a trifle too hot. Years of having her coffee that couple of degrees cooler to preserve that much of the ship's power had given her a fondness for compensating the other way. For all the experience that her years in the Delta Quadrant had given her, fleet command was another story entirely.

Her door chimed.

"Come in."

She didn't turn around, but knew who it was before the door finished closing. Chakotay had always had a presence that seemed almost awe-inspiring.

Neither spoke.

Janeway sat down, and sprawled backwards on her command couch. She looked up at him, and into his dark eyes. He'd always been so stable. Uncannily so. Almost serene. Like now. When the Federation faced its greatest threat since the Borg. Since, well….

"Weren't we supposed to have _missed_ the Dominion War while we were traipsing around the Delta Quadrant?"

Chakotay smiled gently.

"Guess that war really wanted us."

He moved around the low table and sat next to her, as she made room by sliding to her left. It was another couple of minutes before the silence broke again.

"What did I do wrong Chakotay."

"You didn't do anything wrong. And there was nothing more that you could have done."

Janeway had known he would say that. She didn't know whether that was a good thing or not. It was admittedly comforting to know that she had his support. As she always had.

"You think we can pull this off?"

Chakotay was silent for a long while. Janeway was almost ready to ask him again, when he spoke, slowly and deliberately as he usually did.

"Kathryn, if anyone can pull it off, Picard is the man to do it."

And that was that. There really was nothing else to say. The gamble was made. The fleet was moving. Every ship the Federation had, and some they didn't. Federation ships, Klingon ships, the remaining handful of Cardassian craft, ships of the Bajoran Militia, Vulcan's small interstellar Navy, Ferengi freelancers being paid handsomely in gold-pressed latinum, anything. There were even some that advocated putting the ships in the Smithsonian back into emergency service.

Cooler heads had prevailed. They were not going to put unarmed ships into the sky. The waste in personnel wouldn't justify the time gained by the Dominion ships firing at them rather than the armed vessels. But the Dominion was coming.

And not the weakened, battered Dominion that had grudgingly accepted peace with the alliance. No, this was the sharpened, fire-forged sword of an empire that had subjugated a quadrant in the name of the God-Founders.

A sword that even now whistled towards the heart of the Alpha Quadrant.

And what better to parry that sword, thought Chakotay, than a sword of their own. If only Picard could get it out of its scabbard.

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Their 'Techmarine', armoured in burnished red, had brought news that had delivered a stunning blow to Picard's newfound delight. There was a silence throughout the room as the problem sank in to the starfleet officers. Varrel continued.

"Of course, in actuality the engines on the _Sword_ are functional, marginally, but the point is mute. Without the astronomicon, we are blind once we enter the warp, and the imperceptible imbalances in any warp drive will send us round in circles, with us unable to correct."

La Forge cocked an eyebrow and replied.

"Could you point the ship towards Bajor, and ignite the engines, then turn them off again, and so on?"

Haruman answered for the techmarine.

"No. The laws of the warp are not the same as the laws of the material realm. We could be facing in one direction in warp space, ignite the warp engines, and end up having travelled sideways, or backwards. Or having been caught in a warp eddy. There is just no way of telling, without the Astronomicon."

Picard stole La Forge's thunder with the next question.

"What exactly is this 'astronomicon'?"

Picard couldn't help but notice the Deathbringers almost withdraw deferentially as their 'librarian' moved to answer. What was so important about a librarian that they included him in their senior staff? What made him so crucial that he stood at their commander's left hand? The chaplain, Picard could understand. Priests had held positions of authority in many cultures for millennia. But a librarian? Bortalus spoke.

"The astronomicon is a beacon. A light that shines in the warp, from a choir of psykers, broadcasting their very souls into the immaterium. Other psykers…"

La Forge interrupted.

"By psykers, you mean psychics, or telepaths, right?"

Bortalus didn't answer immediately, and the tension in the room became thicker in seconds.

"Not quite, commander. Psychic fits, to a point. Not 'telepath'. Telepathy is only one manifestation of a psyker's talents. If the brother-captain permits…"

Haruman nodded.

" …then I will explain."

Bortalus leant back slightly, the motors of the power armour humming softly.

"Psykers are sentients that possess the ability to sense and utilise the flows of energy from the warp. This can take many forms, both instinctive and learned, and psykers come in vastly differing degrees of innate and potential power. Psykers also provide the communications, known as astro-telepathy, and navigational foundation of the Imperium. Despite the many uses and advantages a psyker enjoys over a non-psyker, the warp is a plane of pure energy, and in trying to draw power from the warp, the psyker risks pulling through an inhabitant of that realm."

Bortalus met the gaze of the Federation officers evenly before dropping his next bombshell.

"Daemon-possession has lost the Imperium literally thousands of worlds, and their influence started a civil-war, millennia ago, that cost us trillions of lives."

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Silence reigned again. This was one of those moments when the true magnitude of the Imperium's difference form the Federation was made clear to all. For Picard, those numbers were nearly unimaginably vast. The Federation's population wasn't anywhere near that big. And for Bortalus to talk of trillions dead.

The concept was shattering, and appalling.

Trillions dead.

Close on the population of the whole quadrant. And what manner of state was this Imperium that it could suffer like that, and remain strong?

What manner of galaxy awaited civilisation?

What manner of techno-barbarism did the future hold?

But Bortalus hadn't stopped.

"Psykers, because of that, are rigorously screened for daemonic influence, because while our civilisation could not exist without them, they are also perhaps the single greatest threat to it at the same time, whether they want to be or not."

Picard found himself wallowing in the emotional responses to the man's words. Emotional responses that the Federation could ill-afford. He sought desperate solace from the onslaught of horror in the paradoxical certainty of his mission. There may have been trillions to spare in their time, for their Imperium, but the Federation could not afford sacrifice, or loss, of that extent. And, paradoxical as it might have seemed, time wasshort.

"So, you use a collection of psykers to project energy, which is detectable to your navigators, as a beacon for your starships?"

"Yes Captain Picard, precisely. And without it, we cannot utilise our faster-than-light capability."

La Forge was still puzzling his way through the physics. How could they point a ship in one direction, turn the engines on, and then not have gone in the direction they were pointing, unless the engines were out of alignment. He asked as much. Varrel, uncomfortable in the situation though he was, answered for him.

"Utilising our warp drives is similar to paddling a canoe on a stormy ocean at night in dense fog. We can only see a very short distance, and have no idea whether we are going somewhere, are travelling in circles, or something else. We could feasibly end up travelling perpendicular to the galactic plane, and THAT would be frustrating."

Varrel looked at the Federation officers arrayed around him.

"The astronomicon is our lighthouse. And unless we have a light to keep our bearings with, we will get lost. Who knows where we could end up?"

Something clicked in La Forge's mind.

"So, let me get this straight. You need a light, right."

Varrel nodded, looking perplexed.

"What if there was another boat, that knew where it was going, that had its running lights on?"

The room went silent as the Federation chief engineer's thoughts and words were digested. Bortalus replied.

"If there was something psychically resonant on board your ship, it is theoretically possible that we could follow it while the _Sword_ is in warp space. But our speed would be a fraction of what it could be, and the beacon would only work for a short distance. And there is another problem...

I am the only psyker on this ship."

"Is there any way of generating psychic energy, or anything else that would broadcast energy that you could detect, while you are in warp space?"

Bortalus shook his head.

"No. Only specially designed psi-emitters will store psychic energy. And they require the presence of a psyker to release that energy. _And_, even if there was a way to enable the psi-emitter, whatever it might be, to release energy, it requires a great deal of energy to project a visible psychic signature over distances that would be required for us to navigate successfully. And with that power requirement, it would have to be an item of incredible potency, or its energy reserves would be depleted within minutes of broadcasting. It would take centuries of absorbing high-end psychic energy to store that type of…"

Bortalus trailed off.

He mumbled a prayer to the Emperor for forgiveness for his unintentional falsehood, thenturned to address Haruman.

"Brother-Captain, I have been in error. There yet exists a means to navigate, which has until now eluded me."

Haruman's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline.

"Explain."

"The table of En'tuh Prix, Brother-Captain. It should hold enough power to project sufficient amounts of psychic energy for us to follow over a short journey. I will depart to make the necessary arrangements."

The librarian rose, and walked out of the room.

There was a brief pause again, before Keenan spoke into the silence.

"Would someone mind explaining what just happened?"

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Four thunderhawks held station on a fifth, which cruiser over towards the _Enterprise_. Three complete marine squads, under Brother-Lieutenant Warren, equipped with teleport interdictors, would escort the relic aboard the Federation vessel. The Deathbringers didn't want to lose sight of that artefact. Not an artefact that could have bought a planet back in the Imperium.

Bortalus remained on the _Sword. _He would guide the giant vessel behind the _Enterprise_, while the Federation ship headed at maximum warp towards Bajor and Deep Space Nine.

"_Enterprise, this is Romeo Escort Lead. Romeo Tango requests clearance to dock."_

Picard's voice was clear as it flew across space.

"Acknowledged, Romeo Tango is cleared to dock. Welcome to the _Enterprise_."

The four escorting Thunderhawks took up station at the entrance to the Enterprise's docking bay, while the last of the monstrous gunships eased its way through the docking bay doors. There were scant inches to spare.

The five Federation officers waiting on the shuttle bay floor watched it come in with deceptive slowness. Brennaman spoke, loudly, over the aerospace vehicle's roaring engines.

"I thought they said that was a shuttle."

La Forge answered him, voice almost whipped away by the wind.

"It is."

Five sets of eyes saw the 'shuttle' close. Took in the enormous dorsal cannon. The prominent guns on either side of its nose, and at its wing tips. The boxy, armoured fuselage. This 'shuttle' wasn't like any shuttle the Federation used.

While it was still above the deck, the rear door opened, and black-armoured figures emerged, jumping the three feet to the metal deck, blood-red weapons held at the ready. The marines rapidly fanned out around the shuttle bay with intimidating precision. No one was under the illusion that the weapons they were carrying were anything but deadly effective.

The shuttle touched down, downdraft from the flaring engines gusting along the deck, and the roar lowering to a scream, then a whine.

Two squads filed out, before a pair of marines brought out the equipment which the Deathbringers held in such high reverence.

A table.

La Forge shook his head and tapped his temples to make sure his retinal implants were working properly.They were. And there was no mistaking it. The Imperium's solution to one of the most interesting technical and engineering problems La Forge had had the dubious pleasure of encountering… was a table.

But not just any table. Apparently this was a holy table.

If it weren't for the seriousness of the Imperial personnel, La Forge would have been pretty sure that they were pulling his leg.

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	26. Return

Greetings all. I am, for those who don't know me personally, proud to announce the birth of my first child, born April 5th, at 2111. Logan Arthur Luke XXXX. I'm not going to go quite so far as to tell you my last name :P… He was born 4.14kgs, or 9 pounds 2 in Imperial, and 55cm long (22inches). Everything is good, and he is the picture perfect image of health.

Save for an unfortunate likeness to me.

My family and I give thanks to God for his safe arrival, and his and his mother's health. Thank you for those of you who have given your support and well-wishing, it's been appreciated in what has been a busy time. I will not apologise for the tardiness. I have bigger priorities. I hope you can all appreciate that there are other things going on. But I will try my hardest to be more timely.

Solomon Islands. Again. Bleh. Didn't we just finish fixing that one!

Oh, and, to all… there are two stories going on at the same time here. Two parallel plot threads. But, fear not, there is method in my madness.

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liljimmyurine: You are perceptive. It may or may not go where you think, given that I don't know what you are thinking. But I do believe you're on the right track.

The Sithspawn: Thank you. I thought it was pretty good, myself. And I've always liked La Forge as a character. He's a pretty decent, down to earth type of bloke, with a decent sense of humour and no-nonsense attitude. I hope to include more of him.

Smithklein: Thank you on your congratulations. It's pretty cool. New incentive to get home at the end of a day's work. And there will be plenty more Federation-Imperium disgust, and it will doubtlessly work both ways. (Hint: Watch an episode of Star Trek, any series. Spot the security fck-ups. There are so many, it's a running joke between me and my wife.)

Malac645: In all honesty, I am steeling myself to write that chapter. Marines are vicious and ruthless in a way that the Federation just would not, almost could not, comprehend. Cardassians have nothing on marines.

LegacyZero: I like congratulations. They are a source of warm fuzzies. The table will lose power. How much will depend on how long it's used for.

Cooldude: Your enthusiasm is refreshing. Your requests for an update are here satisfied.

Shinova: 'Wonderous'? Cheers. I am flattered. Techno-mysticism is a new concept to the Federation, and it will not sit well with them. The Deathbringers may be more pragmatic than most, but they are still Imperial.

The Mad Mad Reviewer: Well expressed. Warhammer is one of the darkest sci-fi universes out there, because it warps and twists our perception of everything we know. Sometimes though, it can come out with some surprising elements of black humour. This, I think was one such moment I just couldn't let go.

Dominus Anaetheron: Casualties when engaging the Federation are _always_ high for the Dominion. However, the Dominion just doesn't care. Plain and simply doesn't give a poo. The Jem'Hadar are just solids after all… I am not a saint. Maybe later… but not just yet.

Duken: Trillions. I'm not actually sure what the next level up from trillions is. If I knew, I may have used that. But I don't… so I didn't. And sorry. This chapter is 40k… but there is method to the madness.

Somos: Give my regards to your mother, and tell her to get off your back and leave you alone. And come to church. We are missing you already.

Shepherds-we-shall-be: I honour your legions, as you honour those of Lycurgas. I will not disgrace you with inaccuracies, and if I do, I shall pay appropriate penance to Nadgazad.

Grayangle: La Forge is nothing if not intelligent. I doubt he'd be foolish enough to say something like that out loud. However, with Bortalus about, he'll have to be careful if he even THINKS it too loud. He'll scan it, and read nothing, because all the energy readings would come in a form that the Federation would not be scanning for. And teething… yes, well… it's safe to say that his mother shares a similar affliction after our vigorous… interaction…

Norsehound: If you, as a Tau player, captured that Table, I would be honour-bound to retrieve it, whatever the cost. Power like that should not be in the hands of non-humans.

Chaos-Mauler: I haven't actually read Blood-Quest, although I am familiar with it, in generalities. If the beacons were given, then the _Enterprise _would have to go first, and stop and fire beacons out, as they are designed to work outside of a ship's hull. This way, the Table can just stay on the _Enterprise _while it powers about at maximum warp. Imperial warp drives work faster (although differently) to Federation ones.

That Swedish guy: The table is not from Ikea. And Federation type five phasers (as used on Mk II shuttles) up to type 12 phasers (as seen in ST:VOY, fitted to _Interpid_-class ships) can't penetrate the armoured hulls of Hirogen ships. Think of the problems they'd have with Imperial craft.

Khartoum: I seriously admire your cognitive abilities. Seriously. Save the wormhole chokepoint. I'm not sure how that'd pan out with the _Sword_ alone. The cycle rate on its weapon systems may be too slow to prevent the Dominion vessels from exiting en masse.

Tyrion77: You are correct about warp travel. But short this trip is not. It'd be like trying to travel from Fenris to Earth without the astronomicon. Achievable. But slow.

Verystrangest: Courage makes us what we are. Without it, we are nothing but dirt chugging around, making more dirt, then dying. Hold fast to your principles. Compromise on them, and you wont be able to meet the gaze of the man in the mirror. Trust me on that one…

Phew… that took a while. Now, one and all, let us begin again…

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The darkness, so soothing.

The pain, comforting by its constancy.

The throbbing, pulsating agony of it all.

So enduring, so… so…

So… what?

Rational thought began to blossom. The veil of silken pain rose, and the world came roaring back into unpleasant focus.

The gleaming white of an apothecarion. White robed technicians and apothecaries hurrying every which way.

Faded to black.

Sound again, lights, frantic movement, voices tinny and distant.

"Adrenaline, double-dose, stat."

"In. No response."

"Quadruple."

"Movement in secondary left ventricle. Very faint."

"Repeat."

"Secondary moving… it's arrhythmic."

"Inject the adrenaline straight into the primary, double."

Faded to black.

What was life? Randomised strings of amino-acids and trypto-peptides held together by the molecular equivalent of electrical tape and wishful thinking? The urge to procreate. To persist. The ability to consume energy, in a variety of forms. Response to stimulus. By all those measurements, he was already dead.

"300 milligrams of adenosine triphosphate."

"Received."

"Again."

"Nothing."

"Again, Emperor damn it."

Faded to black.

Others in the apothecarion. More voices. Larger presences.

"…not responding to treatment. Extensive injuries to all major organ groups, and furthe…"

A flare of pain reminded him that he wasn't quite as detached from himself as he might like to be.

"…exhausted all options for restoration to standard combat fitness. Neural pathways are viable, and should be compatib…"

Faded to black.

Silence. For the first time since the return of semi-consciousness, silence.

And smell. Not the sterile-pure, disinfected tang of the apothecarion. But another… incense, maybe? And soft, warm lighting. Candle-light, his pummelled, stressed subconscious supplied.

In contrast to the lighting, he was cold. His back was cold. Gratitude for being able to feel his back, and indeed anything other than pain, flooded his mind. The Emperor himself must have a hand in this. As if on cue, he heard low, resonant chanting.

It roused his soul, bespoke of stirring acts, of valour, and of the sombre duty that was the burden and privilege of the Astartes. He heard it approach, heard it get louder around him. It was like the coming of destiny, like the herald of the Emperor, and he accepted it with a warm, willing heart.

"…blessed be those who give their all, for even a man with nothing can still offer his life. And lo, there upon…"

Faded to black.

He didn't hear the last part of the rites. The phrase that, whole, was spoken thus 'And lo, there upon the dais, before your altar most high, doth lie a hero. True and honourable be he. And he yet does live. And, to your glory, such is his faith in you, that even in death he will continue to serve.'

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"Shields holding at 64 percent. _Gladius _reports another flight coming in."

The world shook again as a salvo of electrically charged particles slammed into the aft shields.

"58 percent."

Bondsman-Captain Phillips clutched his command chair as the _Leonidas_ was struck again. He thanked the Emperor that the Tyranids were firing at extreme range. But prayed that the _Gladius _would get its warp engines back online. And quickly.

"Helm, right 85 degrees, 15 degrees down angle. I want us between the…"

Another blast of… something… shook the ship. Phillips continued his order.

"I want us between the _Gladius_ and the nearest waves. We need that ship intact."

"Right 85, down 15, aye sir."

"All ahead flank."

The strike cruiser's over-powered engines blazed bright as the power output went to 110 percent of rated maximum. A double impact made the internal lights flicker briefly.

"That hurt us, sir. Void shields down to 27 percent."

"Status of dorsal lances?"

"Charging, sir. Ready to fire in eight, seven, six, five…"

"Fire at lead bioship, target its engines."

"…two, one."

The dorsal lances, with a 270 degree forward field of fire, were able to fire to the starboard rear of the Deathbringer ship. The coruscating blue energy blasts blazed right through the bioship's psi-field, and cored it spectacularly, a wide hole visible straight through the ship's centre-line. It slowed, but didn't stop, or deviate in course. It just continued moving, inertia carrying the dead ship off into space, leaking fluid into the vacuum.

"Target destroyed, four ships remaining, sir."

On the forward viewscreen, the _Gladius'_ image flickered briefly before solidifying again. Phillips saw it, and smiled to himself. The Dark Templar ship's shields were back online. That should give them the required cover to get their warp engines functioning ag-.

Another blast made the Deathbringer strike cruiser vibrate like a tuning fork.

"Shields at 18 percent, sir. Coverage integrity compromising."

"Time to shield reset?"

"Fifteen seconds."

Fifteen seconds, the time taken to utter two medium length sentences. The time it took for an Olympic-grade sprinter to run 140 metres. Time taken to chew a small mouthful of a 'fun-size' chocolate bar. But that fifteen seconds can stretch unbelievably when you are under fire, and your life is hanging on something arriving… In fifteen seconds.

"Left 70, up 10, maintain flank. We need all the distance we can get."

The further they pulled away from the bio-ships, the further the weapons fired at them would have to travel before they impacted with the strike cruiser. Silence. No one moved, nor breathed, nor made any sound at all. Only the sputtering blue glow of the _Gladius'_ engines ahead of them indicated that time was passing at all. The rising-pitch triple chime that announced reactivation of the _Leonidas' _shields was music to the ears.

Almost simultaneously, the white-trimmed green on black shape of the _Triarius_ slid in front and above them, gliding in with deceptive ease from left to right. Its starboard weapons arrays spoke, and a multi-coloured salvo of ordnance flew towards the Deathbringer ship, then sailed over them.

"Direct hit sir, one of the bio-ships is peeling off."

The whole engagement had so far taken less than five minutes. Three bio-ships had been destroyed, but the recovery of the Thunderhawks had taken the _Leonidas_ twice as long as the Dark Templar ships. Twice as many birds, twice the time to roost. To make matters that much tighter, the _Leonidas _had been running interference for the _Gladius_, which was frantically trying to get its warp engines operational. The running battles the Templar ship had been fighting with the Hive Fleet for weeks had not left the strike cruiser in good shape.

Brother-Captain Lysander came striding onto the _Leonidas_' bridge, red cloak trailing behind him. His voice belied none of the concern that one would expect in the situation.

"Glad we're still in one piece. Good work, Bondsman-Captain. What is the status of the others?"

The strike cruiser vibrated a little again as a long-range shot ricocheted off the top of the shields, before careening off into space.

"_Triarius_ is fully operational, and is providing medium range fire support from its starboard broadside. We are holding several thousand kilometres off the _Gladius_, to our port bow. They're pushing their sublight engines as hard as they will go, but their warp drives are still down, and their weapons are below full strength. Even when the engines come online, I'm not sure that their ship will survive a warp jump."

The big, black-armoured marine officer sat in his command chair, and pressed a handful of buttons in sequence on the chair's left arm, looked briefly at the viewscreen and, then depressed a few more, gauntleted fingers scurrying rapidly over the keys.

"Well, we'll just have to trust to the Emperor then, wont we…"

A console beeped, and the officer manning it spoke up.

"Sirs, the _Gladius_ is powering its warp engines. Their power output is not rising smoothly."

Lysander shared a look with Phillips, then the marine nodded. But it was Phillips that gave the orders.

"Helm, match course to the _Gladius, _and bring the warp engines to standby. Comms, signal the _Triarius_, and inform them of our jump. All hands, this is the ship-captain. Brace for combat warp initiation."

Low toned, dirge-like sirens rang through the ship, and personnel scurried to their jump harnesses. Receiving impacts while initiating the jump to warp could send the ship bucking and shaking like a whipped rhinodon. Lysander looked up in time to see the _Gladius_ light one warp engine, then watch another sputter it's way into radiance, then the ship seemed to stretch into infinity in an instant, then vanish. Phillips had the last word.

"Now."

And the ship accelerated almost breathtakingly, sailing past the _Triarius_, which glowed with a series of shield impacts, and headlong towards the infinite-crossover.

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The black peeled back.

And red replaced it.

A pulsating, ominous, discordant, warning red.

And the pain.

Movement and pain.

The whole universe was shaking.

Faded to black.

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Kedron sighed, and let his head hang into his hand as the _Gladius_' engines finally caught, and the ship lurched and shuddered its way past the infinite-crossover. The Dark Templars had taken another beating. But they had survived. Again.

And their mission was intact, thanks to the arrival of marine reinforcements. Ichar could still be saved. Lysander, blessed-be-his-name, has assured him that there was method in the madness. There was a reason for the withdrawal, he had said. They'd be back, and the loss of so many brothers would not have been in vain. By the Emperor, how much did Kedron want to believe that?

But, although he would not admit it, the brother-optio was shaken. He had come the closest to death that he had ever been. Had felt its fetid breath upon his face, stared into its beady eyes and held his nerve only by the Emperor-be-praised timing of the napalm and thermobaric weapons that had cleared the perimeter.

The cohort was a wreck. The _Gladius_ was a wreck. Both the cohort and the _Gladius_, however, were both functioning. How much so had to be determined. His brother marines still sat in the thunderhawk. They might have been waiting for his orders, and in a way they were. But that wasn't why they were still sitting in their transport, silent and unmoving.

Kedron stood, and walked to the nose of the thunderhawk, and pulled the ramp release lever. The hydraulic whine seemed to stir movement, and glazed eyes locked onto the brother-optio.

"Those of you who are wounded, report to the apothecarion for treatment. Those who are not, and those who have the time while awaiting the apothecaries ministrations, offer thanks to the Emperor for our salvation, prayers to Him for the souls of the fallen, and ask for resolve of Him that we might see our unfinished task complete. Brother Gaius, you have command, in my absence. I will be on the bridge if anything is required of me."

The sounds of movement that followed Kedron out of the gunship were reassuring to him. They would prevail. They were marines. It was what they did.

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Revinius smiled as the _Leonidas_ jumped to warp.

"Bring us onto a parallel course, and engage the warp drives. I don't particularly wish to continue this dance with the Devourer without our dancing partners."

A flurry of orders whipped across the strike cruiser's bridge, and the ship swung hard-a-port, before igniting its engines and roaring into the warp on the point of a cobalt blue spear of engine signature.

The fold back to realspace at the other end of the short warp jump was simultaneously anticlimactic and spectacular. The change from the everblack of the immaterium to the starfield of reality was instant, with the galaxy just winking into existence. One second it wasn't there, the next it was.

More impressive, however, were the assembled ships of the Imperial Navy. The three strike cruisers decidedly modest next to the enormity of the navy's capital ships.

"Brother-Centurion, the _Leonidas_ is hailing us."

"On screen."

The ships-on-starfield image shifted to the bridge of the Deathbringer ship, with the brother-captain sitting relaxed on his command chair. Revinius started the conversation.

"Brother."

"Brother. How did you pull out of that one?"

"Unscathed. We're ready to go back in as soon as we receive the word."

Lysander looked thoughtful, almost pensive.

"And the 5th?"

Revinius shook his head.

"We can do this without them. They need the break. Lucinius had them running at a very high operational tempo."

Lysander nodded slowly. But didn't appear satisfied.

"Ok, they're your marines. But I'll run with it on one condition."

Revinius raised his eyebrow.

"Oh, will you now? And what condition might that be?"

Lysander's relaxed expression evaporated and he leaned forward intently.

"The condition that YOU be the one to tell that to the 5th."

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As Kedron walked onto the bridge the comms officer addressed him.

"Sir, Brother-Centurion Revinius requests permission to come aboard."

Kedron looked sharply at the man as he rounded a console and sat at the chair on the bridge. The question was more than slightly confusing to him.

"Of course he can come aboard."

"Response away, sir."

Kedron sat down, and looked at the ship's commander.

"How are we holding up?"

"Poorly, sir. The warp drives are holding together by barely more than good intentions, the weapons are barely worthy of the name, and our shields are more theoretical than actual. At least we aren't getting any worse."

Kedron couldn't help but notice a crewman staring at him.

"Is there a problem, crewman?"

The man nearly jumped out of his skin, and raised his gaze to the Dark Templar's face.

"Uh, no, sir."

The marine followed where the man's eyes had been looking. To the place where his right arm had been.

Ah.

"Inform me when the Brother-Centurion's transport docks, and keep me appraised of developments. I'll be at the apothecarion."

He would need to have what was left of his right arm measured for fitting with a replacement. If the apothecaries could spare the time…

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Revinius was musing. He'd been doing a lot of that recently. It almost seemed like a standard reaction, these days.

When had things become complicated, philosophical and moralistic? He was a space marine. He got orders. He went and killed things in the Emperor's name.

What was bothering him?

Of course, he knew the answer to his own questions, even as he asked them. He had responsibilities now. His decisions affected more lives than just his own. Of course, to an extent, they always had, since he became a marine. But now it was different.

His decisions were no longer mechanical ones. No longer where to fire his bolter, whether to duck or step back, slash or stab. Now, he sent men to do his bidding, and they trusted in his judgement to keep them effective, and, if necessary, to see that their sacrifice was not in vain. And that weight of responsibility brought with it a weight of thought, a weight of cognisance, that could be difficult to bear.

To be effective, you had to acknowledge the needs of your soldiers. To do that, you had to understand those needs, and empathise with those needs, and not just because you shared them. Self-sacrifice could come easily. Far more easily than acknowledging the sacrifice of others as it was happening. And to do that required connection with a man's deeper humanity that so many marine chapters tried to suppress. And that humanity carried with it a burden of conscience that was… disquieting.

Revinius' reverie was interrupted by the jolt of the thunderhawk touching down aboard the _Gladius_.

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Kedron watched as the brother-centurion slowly descended the ramp and walked towards him. His armour still gleamed, and the shadows of dents were all that showed of the years of fighting the man had endured.

Kedron respected Revinius greatly. Few were the marines who did not respect their senior officers. Revinius, one of the most physically imposing of the Dark Templars and a giant of a man, was not one of the exceptions. The younger marine spoke first, bracing to attention as he did so.

"Brother-Centurion, welcome to the _Gladius._ We greet you in…"

Revinius interrupted the formalities, holding up and open hand, although without rebuke.

"Brother. Please. Spare me."

Kedron stopped mid sentence, and tilted his head fractionally to the left.

"As you wish, sir."

"There are a couple of things we need to discuss. And Lucinius' chambers are the place they should be discussed."

Revinius turned to his right, and headed for the door to the thunderhawk bay. Kedron looked momentarily puzzled, then moved to follow him.

The idea that he should query the man as to why the perfectly empty shuttle bay could be used never even crossed his mind.

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True awareness was so hard.

Memories kept flooding into the present, overlaying with it. Time swam listlessly.

_The siege of Vhozda. Twelve thousand auxilia died before the fortress' guns before the strike cruiser Spatha silenced the siege guns. Three hundred Dark Templars Legionnaires stormed the breach opened by the bombardment and ended in twenty minutes what the guard had not cracked in months_.

The surrounds were alternating black, grey, red and bright, dazzling white. Pain and sensation, and figures moving in the foreground. Why couldn't he move?

_New Delphi counter-offensive. The countless multitudes of Warlord Tiberaxx the Bold broke and fled when Legate Brutilius lead the 1st, 3rd and 4th cohorts in a night raid into the rebel lines. Never had the heavy flamers of the first cohort caused such panic._

Pain flared, and consciousness of movement was reached, as the world faded to black again. Could he still hear? Or was it memory demanding for focus in the present?

_The Inquisitorial Confrontation. Inquisition ships patrolling the space around Nadgazad. The Legate under arrest. All cohorts under watch by soldiers of the Ordo Hereticus. Inquisitors high handedly discussing options such as mind-scrubbing and exterminatus. Penitent crusades. Brother-Centurion Crolinius beaten when he had suggested, politely even, that no fault or crime had been proven of the Dark Templars. The joy when two dozen Deathbringer warships had appeared over Nadgazad and demanded the Inquisition's withdrawal. Inquisitor Wysantos' fury at the realisation that they were outgunned, then his smug satisfaction when more Inquisition ships dropped out of warp. _

Words, numbers and readings began to scroll across his vision, interspersed with the still running train of memory.

_The tense standoff broken when first Blood Scorpion, then Death Adder ships also arrived, proclaiming their support for the Deathbringers. The heated, threat-laden exchanges, ending only when Master Ragarik and High Commander Wellborn teleported aboard Inquisitor Wysantos' flag-bridge with three squads of terminators each. Threat of imminent destruction leads to sudden peace. _

Focus, at last, without pain. Focus, clarity, and freedom of motion. Was this true death? Was this, at last, the rest that the Chaplains had promised him as a reward for so long? Was this peace with Him? A voice spoke, deep, raspy yet resonant, and thrumming with menace, power and authority.

"Caius Lucinius, we honour you, Elder-Centurion, now and until death doth claim you once more."

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Kedron followed Revinius into the strike-cruiser's centurion chambers. And couldn't quite shake a mounting feeling of unease. That his superior was tight-lipped on the way in wasn't helping.

'Snap out of it.' Kedron thought to himself.

'This is Revinius, who I have known and served under for years. What is there to worry about.'

But Kedron could feel it coming. Could feel the aura of expectation that was following the two marines through the ship. Could feel it amongst the other marines of what was left of the fifth cohort. Could feel it in his own bones and sinews.

Revinius went and stood behind the desk, then bent down and retrieved a dark bottle from the bottom draw. How Revinius knew to find it there, in Lucinius' desk, was a question that Revinius answered before Kedron could voice it.

"Lucinius and I have known each other for a fair while, and I happen to know that we share a fondness for this."

The Brother-Centurion poured out two glasses of the dark-red liquid, and raised his. Kedron took the tacit invitation, and did the same. Revinius then spoke the words of the toast.

"Lest we forget."

They brought their glasses together, then drank. Kedron got half way through his second sip when the liquid hit him in the face like a medium-weight boxer's cross. He maintained the presence of mind not to spit it out, but his eyes teared up and his nose moved. Revinius chuckled as he put his glass down.

"Lycurgan Bloodwine. Lysander introduced me to it during the Beta Mithrax campaign. Good stuff. Moderately strong. Takes a little getting used to. And the best stuff to use for special occasions."

Kedron nodded, trying to shake the feeling. Revinius' smile dropped.

"Also gives us an excuse for the reason we cry."

Kedron stood up straighter.

"Brother-Centurion. We are marines. Soldiers of the Emperor without peer. We do not cry at those that fell in their duty to Him. We applaud their example, and…"

"Kedron. Stop."

The abrupt tone silenced him with an audible snap as his jaw clamped itself shut.

"We are all that and more. But we are still men. Men who fight alongside each other, and others like us, for a very long time. We, contrary to popular belief, form attachments, for associations, and have feelings, although we try damn hard to suppress them. Every now and then though, things slip through. A particularly close comrade's death. The death of a planet. Loss."

Kedron understood. But not completely.

"I'm not sure I follow what you mean, sir."

"We all suffer. All of us. Even the Emperor himself suffered. We suffer pain, we suffer loss, and we suffer humiliation. And for the most part, we bear that with the stoicism and nonchalance that space marines across the Imperium are known for. But not always. Sometimes we crack, sometimes the weight of the world, and the weight of the hopes of our brothers, and the burden that is our lot becomes to much, and we snap, bend or break."

Kedron listened. The words seemed to speak directly to his heart.

"But now you no longer have that option. You can no longer afford that luxury. Your men, your brothers, and others who accompany us will look to you as an example. From this time forward, the only tears you should shed are those brought on by bloodwine."

Kedron nodded slowly. He saw what was coming next, but it was like standing in a tunnel starring at the lights of an oncoming mag-train.

"With that, I formally grant you field commission to the rank of Brother-Centurion."

Revinius raised his own glass of bloodwine.

"You may want another swig."

Kedron threw his head back and drank deeply, feeling the scalding liquid burn down his throat, and revelling in the pain of his body. Took his mind away…

Revinius' next words, after a considerable silence, were more relaxed, and open.

"You probably should get that arm fixed up. There're some things we should go through before the next phase gets under way."

Kedron shook his head in the negative.

"No, let's hear it. There are other brothers who need the apothecarion more than I."

Revinius looked like he was about to try to overrule the younger officer, but relented. If he'd just promoted the man, he should respect his new rank.

"As you wish. Brother-Captain Lysander has indicated that we are ready to move into the next phase as we speak. The 5th Cohort has done spectacularly. You are all to be congratulated, and will recuperate here, and join us in company with the Navy after we have achieved our objective. You've earned the break."

Kedron's brow knitted together as he thought the elder man's words through.

"You want us to sit here 'recuperating' while you and the Deathbringers fight?"

Revinius nodded.

"Brother, you must be out of your mind to think that I am going to let you and Lysander do all the work."

"No, I am serious. You've done your part. We'll do the rest."

"Likewise, I am serious. We fought over that planet again and again. We fought and bled and died for that. We're going."

"You're cohort is at barely 25 of nominal strength. It'll take a week to get back to combat readiness. We don't have that week."

"Then we'll move with you. I'm sure you can use two extra squads, if nothing else."

"You need the rest and recuperation before..."

"NO".

Kedron roared, as he stood up.

"We would have died down there, our work unfinished. We were THAT close… THAT close to being wiped out. We watched our brothers, en masse, torn limb from limb, in some cases literally. We nearly met our maker, and, more importantly, we had to be pulled out. We were unable to vindicate ourselves against the Devourer, and that knowledge will consume us, turn our anger to hate, and _that_ will cloud our judgement and ruin our ability to think as we fight."

Revinius hesitated. He didn't want the fifth in combat again. Kedron beat him to speech.

"We need to fight through, Revinius. We need to eradicate the shame on our honour that was our retreat. No matter the logic, they beat us. They threw themselves at us again, and again, and until we beat them, and beat them there, they and the spectre of their victory will haunt our every waking moment. It must end here."

The last part of the statement came out almost as a whisper, but it hit the older marine like a bell hammer. Revinius thought long and hard. The silence dragged. Kedron spoke again.

"I will not yield on this, si… Brother. We are going to fight there, with you and Lysander, or not. And, as this is now MY cohort, you can't stop us. We will go back. With you, or without you."

Revinius nodded once more.

"Very well."


	27. To break upon a wheel

Phew, that took a while. Apologies will not be offered. Suck it up, I have a life. My son is now (as of 2nd June 06) just over 7 weeks old, and is huge. And starting to crawl, while trying to talk. He crawled off the top end of a mattress night before last, which woke me and my fiance up with alacrity. The little bloke's lungs work, of that there is no doubt.

I'm getting married on the 24th of this month. That's soaking up more time. But I may have time for another update before then. We'll see. I'd invite you all except… I don't actually know most of you. So… I wont. But I'm sure I'll think of you at least once over the course of the day.

Our soldiers are in Timor again. Those poor folks (the Timorese) have had it rough, haven't they?

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The Sithspawn: Glad you liked. Picard and Haruman… well… kind of… here…

Liljimmyurine: Yeah, I'm not quite sure what made me make Lucinius a Venerable Dreadnought. Felt the urge. And I'm loath to lose major characters. Plus, it's an interesting character to develop. How… well… that'll come up next chapter.

DDRAIG: He's a loud bundle of joy, but a bundle of joy nonetheless. Smart little cookie. Yells at us if we aren't entertaining.

Grayangle: Yes, vigorous. Do you need an explanation of how babies come along? If so, then… go somewhere else. I am soooooooooooooooo not ready for that conversation. And yes, I saw the part in the BFG rulebook describing what weapons batteries are also… I hypothesise that the ST ships would just have their shields and hulls crushed under weight of energy projection, rather than pierced by scalpel-like application of sophisticated technology. Old fashioned, perhaps, but you drop a building on a tank…

Ardanwen: Thank you for taking the time to analyse and offer suggestions. I do appreciate these, and will factor those into my thoughts concerning future chapters. And this one, as it happens… just it's not so obvious due to the times… ah, bah. You know what I mean. Reference to battlebarges and lances, I often allow some differences in space marine ship construction. After all, Space Marines being as independent as they are, they would doubtlessly modify their ships, if able. And there's a lot of space on a battlebarge to work with. With ceremonial colours/camouflage, I came up against a dilemma. I wanted an army that was practical, and utilised commonsense when it came to things like not running around in fluourescent colours. At the same time, I didn't want the stigma that some marine chapters heap at the feet of those who use camouflaged colouration. I felt that a black primary colour scheme would satisfy both requirements.

1And in light of the last point, while ethnically British myself, although living in Australia, I am of the opinion that given time, the American version of billions and trillions will come to be commonly accepted. Given that it is so in one of the former British Dominions, I expect it to be the case everywhere, given time. Good point about the Germanesque-ness though. Superb comments on teleportation, mind… I will utilise that. Thank you…

ApocSM: Muchos gracias.

Huh: As requested, I now bring you gankage.

Dominus Anaetheron: If marines lose contact with their purpose they fall away from the Imperium, as has happened with the Astral Claws, and with all marines prior to the heresy. Even the Dark Angels tread a fine line. If you, or anyone else, wants my detailed thoughts on things like this, I HAVE written a detailed piece on the ethics of warfare. 6000 odd words. Just email me, and you can have a copy. Or, if there's enough demand, I may post it up… And the rain of death is due shortly…

Tyrion77: Nice thought on the ramming. I may have to throw it in for comic relief…

Smithklein: Chaos Jem'Hadar… not quite… but you've hit a point that I was curious to see come up. Keep thinking. You're not right, but you're not quite wrong, either…

Thor2006: First contact with orks isn't due yet. I checked. They haven't explored all that far just yet, contrary to sentiment expressed in ST circles. Just check their own maps of the place. The Federation is actually fairly territorially compact.

WilliamD-000: Glad you like. Will write more, because of nice people like you, and because work gets slow sometimes.

Malac645: Character and empathy/sympathy, and a degree of suspense, is essential to any story. A story that lacks suspense is a story that lacks involvement and reader connection. So speaketh me from the lofty heights of… not very high…

DoubleEagle: Thank you for the compliment. I relate easily to Imperial Guard, being an army bloke myself. I try to put myself in their shoes, such as I am able, and describe what I see. Don't hold your breath on the Imperial Guard story, time is simply not available… but I will finish this, although it might take a while…

Tolt: Death of Admiral Antigonos? The Emperor, given that he knows, and sees, would cheer, if he were physically able to, which he is not. Naval High Command will be grumpy, grumble/grind their teeth, send a message of protest to the High Lords of Terra, send a message of protest to Lycurgas, to complain to Master Ragarik, and then everyone will ignore said letters, and someone else will be promoted into Antigonos' spot at the campaign's conclusion. In all likelihood. Of course, if Lysander's plan doesn't work, then Admiral Antigonos' death will be the least of anyone's worries.

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By popular demand, I have included large amounts of combat in this chapter. Not excessive, in my opinion. But a taste of the disparity between the Imperium and Gene Roddenberry's utopian vision.

Enjoy.

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"All hands, this is the Captain. Be advised that there is an armed Imperial presence aboard. In keeping with the Federation Manual of Ceremonial Procedures, please come to attention when the party moves past you. I expect all of you to give our guests any assistance they may require, and to be tolerant of any social or cultural differences. That is all."

To a layman, the statement seemed innocuous, even innocent. To starfleet personnel, officers and enlisted, the statement could almost have been insulting. They'd all taken intensive courses in diplomacy, interspecies communication, protocol in conflict, and others.

What Picard's statement had done was to delicately remind the crew of the _Enterprise_ that these guests they were receiving were highly, highly important, in a way that the _Enterprise _was used to, but not always prepared for.

And this time, they weren't going somewhere ferrying alien VIPs. They were going somewhere bringing the embodiment of hope for the Federation.

Ironic. The embodiment of hope for the Federation was the warship of an ultra-militaristic, xenophobic, imperial state.

Picard mentally shook off the thought. They needed these Deathbringers. They didn't have to like them.

"Commander Yee, please ensure that our visitors are settled in."

"Yes, sir."

"Hail the _Sword._"

"Aye, sir. They're responding."

"On screen."

The imposing visage of Brother-Captain Haruman appeared on the viewscreen. Picard smiled briefly, then spoke to him.

"We're ready to proceed when you are, Brother-Captain."

"Stand by, _Enterprise._"

The viewscreen still showed the _Sword_'s battle-scarred bridge, and Picard watched as Haruman pressed buttons on his chair's arm. He spoke over the intercom.

"Brother-Librarian, the _Enterprise_ is ready to begin. We await your affirmation."

"Hang on, Brother, I'm finishing off the required adjustments to the psi-conductors in my sanctum. Five minutes, at the outside."

"Be quick, Brother. We're all waiting on you."

Picard thought he could hear the Librarian's frustration even over the two-stage comm-link.

"With all due respect, Brother-Captain, I cannot work any faster."

Haruman nodded absently, either not aware that the action was invisible to the man on the other end of the comm-link, or not even realising he was doing it.

"Alright. Keep me posted."

"Will do. Bortalus out."

Haruman altered his focus, eyes boring into his viewscreen and straight at Picard.

"There you have it, Captain. Soon. You just take good care of that relic."

Picard nodded solemnly. He didn't get it. Really, he didn't. The artefact gave of no recognisable energy signature. Not one bit. And yet the Deathbringers heaped such reverence upon it, it was remarkable. Obviously intelligent, capable people placing so much faith in nothing. Perhaps the placebo effect was stronger than it had ever been given credit for?

"I will, Brother-Captain. I will."

At that, the door to the turbolift opened, and Brother-Lieutenant Warren strode onto the bridge, with a stammering Commander Yee protesting behind him.

Several pairs of eyes tracked the men across the bridge, with the marine stopping behind the captain's chair. Warren spoke, his deeper voice cutting through the murmur of conversation on the Federation bridge.

"Brother-Captain."

Haruman back, his voice and eyes betraying the slightest hint of amusement.

"Brother-Lieutenant. How are things over there?"

"Interesting, sir. A little cramped in places. And these Federationers lack respect. But we will survive."

A small smile softened the end of the marine officer's statement. He'd known Haruman for a good long time, and had fought together, as peers, for decades under Brother-Captain Richards.

"Glad to hear it. Keep the table safe, Brother."

"Will do."

"And try not to let the heretics and xenos get to you."

Warren scowled and was about to make a withering remark about duty when Haruman chuckled and closed the channel.

Centuries, and Ed could still get a rise out of him.

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No one on the bridge had missed the heretics and xenos reference. Not one of them. Picard had been more diplomatic about talking to the marine lieutenant than his XO had been, but the marine had not liked it.

So, now they had thirty-one extremely heavily armed and armoured, xenophobic, religious fanatics guarding a 'holy' table and barricading the doors to his shuttle bay. And they'd erected dampening fields and teleport interdictors that put every scanning and encryption device the _Enterprise_ had to total shame.

He'd been sealed off from an important section of his own ship. They'd even locked out external control of the shuttle bay doors. They could only be opened manually. And of course, to do that…

While he couldn't be sure, Picard was fairly certain that his chief of security was having a nervous breakdown.

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Ryalak pondered his latest orders. He wasn't happy. Wasn't happy at all. But he'd carry them out.

He knew the Praetor. Quite well, in fact. As far as he was concerned, the Romulan Star Empire couldn't have been in better hands than hers. And, more than anything else in the universe, he wanted to have his ship near Romulus, so that he could defend her if required.

But his orders dictated otherwise. He was to offer his assistance to the Federation. He was to operate under Picard's direct authority. Maintain regular reporting to Romulus.

Ryalak could see the sense of that. The events unfolding would effect every state in the quadrant, and by extension the galaxy. But, equally, Ryalak was a Romulan, and the events on Romulus would effect Ryalak rather directly.

He was a Commander. A senior officer of the Romulan Imperial Navy. He would follow his orders. None would fault him for that.

Save, perhaps, his own conscience.

In any case, better Picard than that damnable Admiral Nechayev. At least Picard was a man he could respect, for a human.

He stood, closing his personal database port, and headed for his bridge. He didn't like it. But he trusted the Praetor's judgement, and had a job to do.

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Brother Tyquin stood at his post near the door to the _Enterprise's_ shuttle bay. This ship was by turns intimidating and pitiful. Their security systems, that they had seen in any case, were atrocious. Their personnel were soft. Their crew pampered and weak. The luxuries on this ship spoke of almost unspeakable debauchery. Fraternisation was rife. Tyquin could almost taste the lingering pheromones every time a door opened.

And the food was so rich; it was a miracle they weren't all hideously fat. Those that weren't hideously alien, anyway.

If it hadn't been for the unbending faith and loyalty that the marine had for the Brother-Captain, he'd have been extremely concerned. While liberal by Astartes standards, Deathbringers were still Imperial.

He moved slightly, and checked the magazine on his bolter. The same as it had been five minutes earlier…

He muttered a prayer to the Emperor for the strength to maintain vigil in his duty.

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Bortalus' powerful mind scoured the immaterium, probing for the light in the warp that would mark the position of the _Enterprise_. It should be close, but he couldn't see it. The warp was still boiling from their tumultuous arrival. The warp storms, by what Bortalus had seen, were horrendous. While the rift to realspace had healed, the warp was still a mess, like a stirred bathtub under a shell of ice.

He focussed again, beads of sweat standing out on his pale brow. Few people could truly comprehend, but as a delta-class psyker, Bortalus was an immensely powerful entity. However, in keeping with Lycurgan principles of restraint and precision, he rarely, rarely utilised his full power.

Now, however, the unbridled might of his potent mind scanned the warp like a high-power radar, blazing unfathomable power into the immaterium. A beacon that would have drawn daemons in seconds, had there been more daemons to draw.

It would be another three hundred centuries before the Fall, and the warp was less dangerous to a psyker. But it still had its perils, and Bortalus was careful to keep his mental and spiritual shields up.

A task that was all the harder without the familiar and reassuring dual presence of the Lord of Mankind and astronomicon.

An inquisitive screamer-type daemon, a malevolent shark-like warp-predator cruised through the immaterium, circling the blazing light, before moving closer. Such energy from a mortal was… tantalising. So much. The screamer could feast on this soul for a long, long…

The daemon evaporated, its life-energy shorn away by the blaze of power that was pouring from the psyker.

The brief, despairing, agonised wail diverted the psyker's attention in its direction, and a flicker of light through the warp storms held his mindsight.

There.

He activated his comm-link.

"I have it, Brother-Captain."

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The sound of Bortalus' success brought great satisfaction to Haruman. His friend had come through again. As well he should have. The brother-captain fleetingly duelled with a pang of regret for implying to his psyker friend that he wouldn't be anything but efficient.

Despite this, he had taken longer than usual.

"Difficulties?"

"Entry turbulence, warp storms and daemons, brother. But I am ready to proceed."

So like Bortalus. Understated or melodramatic. Hard to tell which. He'd find out later.

"Very good. Standby."

"Acknowledged."

"Bondsman-Lieutenant, signal the _Enterprise. _We are ready to proceed. Initiate on our mark, initial heading; straight towards this 'Bajor' place."

There was a pause, and you could almost picture the short-range signals bouncing between the ships. A trilling chime announced the arrival of a response.

"_Enterprise_ acknowledges. They send their best wishes."

"Very well. Bring the warp-engines online."

The ship rumbled as the ancient reactors drew more energy than anything their size had any right to. Thousands of personnel secured themselves for a non-combat warp jump.

Eight minutes later, the response from the stations returned, and the transition proper began.

"Starting up main relays" the senior bondsman-enginseer called out.

"Commencing final systems check."

"Tracking and crossover controls online."

Another technician vocalised. There was a brief pause, and more than one crewman realised that he was actually holding his breath.

"Coolant flows nominal".

"Infinite-crossover variance normal. Automatics engaged." Another put in.

"Ship machine-spirit priority sequencing at standard" reported a third.

Haruman watched impassively, successfully giving the impression of complete calm. He had often wanted to try his direct hand at a warp jump, or some such, but had, for some reason or other, never quite gotten around to it. Around him, men and machine were harmonising to the task at hand, merging in perfect synchronisation, as one after the other announced the readiness of themselves and the dedication of the machine-spirits they served.

Finally:

"All warp systems powered and online"

"Ready to initiate warp drive"

The senior bondsman-enginseer completed the recitation.

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Starlines formed as the elegant shape of the _Enterprise_ ignited its warp engines ahead of the battlebarge.

Tension was high on the bridge. All their efforts so far would come to nought if the mammoth ship following them could not reach warp space. beeped and burbled shortly after the Federation ship began to move.

"Sir, we are reading massive power fluctuations. The energy readings are… sir, I can't make heads or tails of what's coming out of that ship."

Picard would have been lying if he said he wasn't concerned. So he didn't.

"Steady, Mr Brennaman. Hold your course. Let's trust that thirty-eight thousand years of technological development might give them a few scientific principles and fundamental laws we haven't worked out yet."

Silent seconds passed, then all hell broke loose at one.

"Sir, readings have passed our detection…"

"Sensors have lost track of…"

"We are reading tears in the…"

"HOLD."

The veteran captain's strong voice brought everyone to silence again.

"They are using technology we have barely conceptualised. It's bound to generate strange readings. We shall hold our course, and get ourselves, and them, to our destination."

There was a pause before an indeterminate voice piped up from one of the stations at the rear of the ship.

"But what if they're gone, sir?"

"If their engines have malfunctioned, or indeed if their ship didn't survive the transition we'll be needed more at Deep Space Nine, and more than ever."

"What if they need help with their repairs?"

Picard's lips pursed together in grim pseudo-amusement.

"If they need help with repairs, there is likely to be nothing that we can do to provide it."

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Aboard the _Minkash'Maen_, reactions were similar.

"Commander, the leviathan's power output is increasing exponentially."

"Acknowledged, Centurion. Continue on course."

The stillness typical of a well-disciplined Romulan bridge held again, for a few seconds.

"Sir, the output is starting to approach boundaries of previously recorded parameters. No change in rate increase."

A cold grip held Commander Ryalak's spine in a vice.

"Continue to follow the _Enterprise_. The larger ship will be likewise following them."

The _Sword_, rapidly receding into the distance, and occupying the centre of the viewscreen, leapt forward as if stung, then disappeared.

Silence once more.

"Commander, their power output reached infinite for an instant, just before they vanished."

Ryalak was briefly puzzled.

"Infinite?"

"Yes, sir. Infinite energy, for an instant, then nothing."

A slowly released breath of air punctuated the return to silence, as the D'Deridex class warbird tailed the two Federation ships.

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Another slowly released breath of air signified the relaxation of a great deal of tension aboard the battlebarge itself. Thousands of man-hours had been poured out over the past days, but the rush job had been worrying to the senior staff. It had been as much luck as endeavour that had the enormous ship sailing through the warp once again.

Bortalus had an open comm-channel to the bridge, to relay course changes. So far, the warp storms had not moved the Deathbringer ship from its course.

Haruman was not alone in praying that they would be spared from stressing the oh-so-fragile main engines through course changes.

"Estimated time, extrapolated from the _Enterprise_'s course?"

A bondsman-lieutenant answered, voice sounding small after the deep bass of the marine.

"Several days, sir."

The Brother-Captain nodded.

"Keep me informed."

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Three sectors away, on a direct line between a certain section of the Romulan-Federation Neutral Zone and Bajor, lay a system devoid of planets. This system, by virtue of it's having no notable resources, unusual astronomical phenomena, planets, wormholes nor being in close proximity to any _other_ systems with the above, was uninhabited. While it _did_ have a very large asteroid belt, none of them were notable in themselves. In fact, it was a boring system in a universe that possessed far more boring systems than Starfleet recruiting would have one believe.

So boring, in fact, so standard, and so mundane, that the system, and its star, didn't even have a name. Only a designation, a series of letters and numbers that serve no purpose outside star charts and navigational systems, save to illustrate that this was a system of nothing.

That would change.

Today, in fact.

Because, hiding amongst this particular system's asteroids was a squadron of four Dominion Attack ships, ordered to conduct long-range interdiction of Starfleet assets.

They had been in place for a long while. Their Vorta controllers had liased several times. They would obey the Founders' directions. By choice and by the power of imprinted genetic-memory-based compulsion. But the small fleet had been sitting here for a long time, and the stockpiles of Ketracel White would run out soon.

They had held position while Romulan Fleets had roared past. Had stood fast while the Federation had dispatched ships to Bassen Rift. But if they did not move soon, the white would run out, and the Jem'Hadar would either die, or go on a murderous rampage, _then_ die.

The small fleet did not know of the armistice. No one had bothered to tell them. In fact, their masters assumed that, like all the other ships that they'd had roving prior to the Battle of Cardassia Prime, they'd been lost. Not that the Founders were expected to care. They were gods, after all, and those that crewed their ships were only solids.

The Jem'Hadar and Vorta were genetically conditioned/programmed to both follow orders, and preserve themselves, if the latter did not conflict with the former. Vorta, in particular, were supposed to analyse the situation and determine how best to serve the Founders' interests. Squandering their own lives would not do that.

So, in essence, the little flotilla had sat in-system, creeping along on bare life-support, hoping for a target smaller than it to appear.

And now, for the first time in a good long while, they might have it.

Messages bounced back and forth between the darkened ships. Radio spectrum messages, plodding along at minimal power, at tiny distances. But enough for their purposes.

Old, long-unserviced engines flared for an instant, and set the flotilla drifting towards a certain point in the asteroid field. A point very close indeed to the corridor through which two Federation ships and a Romulan warbird were to pass through the asteroids.

Vorta Durayn smiled as his small fleet moved. Finally. A chance to do as the Founders desired.

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Starlines blazed past the _Enterprise_'s bridge. The ship was pushing every last teracochrane out of its warp engines. The_ Intrepid_, close on its heels, was red-lining its engines to keep up. The _Minkash'Maen_ wasn't keeping up. Only the predictable course and phenomenal speeds were keeping the ships in contact.

And, trailing the larger of the two Federation ships, was the largest vessel in the galaxy. But one that was completely invisible to the other three, travelling as it was through warp space.

Of course, the _Sword of Lycurgas_ was just as blind to the three smaller ships that were its defacto escort as they were to it. Moreover, it was blind to, well, everything, in realspace.

Which was unfortunate. The sensors of the battlebarge, on active scanning, could have easily detected the Dominion ships.

But they didn't.

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Lieutenant Brennaman spoke, after several hours of tense near silence on the bridge.

"Sir, we are approaching the LV 3286 system. We will have to transit the system at impulse. There's too much debris for the deflector to handle."

Picard frowned.

"Has this already been factored in to our timings?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. Slow to impulse. Transfer auxiliary power to the deflector."

The _Enterprise_ had not been alone in its decision to slow to impulse. The _Intrepid_ followed suit, the two ships dropping back from warp velocity close to each other… a credit to the _Intrepid_'s helm.

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Unfortunately, the _Sword_ was not so lucky.

Bortalus' voice rang out, sounding fractionally tinny over the comm.

"The warp currents are strong, Brother-Captain. We are being pushed sideways. I advise we correct our course, 35 starboard."

He senior marine mentally shrugged. His acquiescence in this matter was a formality. He had no more control of the ship in this situation than he had control of the flows of the warp itself.

"Bondsman-Lieutenant, adjust course as indicated."

"Aye, sir."

The battlebarge swung its bow through the immaterium, fighting the roaring warp storms. Bortalus wouldn't admit it, but he was worried. Without the astronomicon as a frame of reference, they really were becoming disorientated. Only the feeble, flickering light cast by the beacon aboard the _Enterprise_ illuminated their passage, and Bortalus' grasp on it was tenuous at best.

Tenuous enough that he missed the flicker of power that heralded the return to sublight velocity of the two Federation ships.

With the furious warp storms fighting the forward progress of the ship's engines, Bortalus could only hope that what forward progress they made would keep them in warp-sight on the _Enterprise._

What Bortalus did not, could not, know, was that the _Enterprise_ had slowed down to an infinitesimally small fraction of the speed it had been going.

The _Sword_'s engines were flat out, going nowhere. A rat in a wheel. Not that Bortalus knew it, but it was fortunate that the _Enterprise _had stopped. Without the halt, the larger ship would have been left behind while the smaller vessel ploughed onwards.

And given the four-dimensional nature of warp space, the _Enterprise_ could well have been pulling away in time.

Given, that had not eventuated. But, to collective detriment, something else had.

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Four things happened on the _Enterprise_. Firstly, there was sudden and widespread commotion on the bridge as space came alive around the two Federation ships. Ops was the first to speak.

"Sir, multiple contacts, all vectors. Closing fast."

Tactical.

"Their shields are up, and weapons armed."

"They're jamming all subspace frequencies, sir."

"Raise shie-"

The second thing that occurred was that several hundred Jem'Hadar teleported aboard the _Enterprise_ and _Intrepid, _materialising throughout the ship, but especially in key areas; Engineering, Sickbay, the Bridge and near known armouries.

The third thing that happened was that an alert engineering crewman onboard the _Enterprise_ slapped the panic alarm, shortly before a blast of energy tore through his torso.

The fourth was that the sleek ship's shields belatedly went up. Then promptly went back down again at gunpoint.

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First Ouitza felt immense satisfaction. One of the Federation's most powerful ships, a _Sovereign_-class, had been captured with no loss to him, or his crew. And so luxurious, so much power surplus. So many humanoids to bend to the Founders' will.

He looked about the bridge of the ship, watched the Federationers corralled together under guard, and listened as reports came in from across the ship.

The Vorta controller would be pleased.

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Brother-Lieutenant Warren looked up and around as the shuttle bay lights went red and the sirens started up.

Marines that had been restfully alert snapped to full readiness, multiple weapons trained to every one of the four entry points, then roving around the inside of the shuttle bay as the teleport interdictors hummed.

Seconds passed, and the interdiction field held.

"Warren to bridge, status."

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Weapons rose on the bridge, and swivelled round to point at the captain's chair at the centre of the room, as it squawked out its question.

There was a barely perceptible groan from the bridge officers, huddled together under guard. The Deathbringers onboard had been regarded as the ship's secret ace in the hole. And they were secret no more.

"Bridge, this is shuttle bay, report status, over."

Another groan. Not only had they blown their own cover, but the Deathbringers had given the Jem'Hadar their exact location.

The First spoke next.

"Was there not a detachment sent to secure the shuttle bay?"

Another Jem'Hadar, whose markings showed his status as a third, answered him, the confusion evident even before he spoke.

"It was. Twenty warriors were sent."

"First Ouitza to fleet. What is the status of the detachment tasked to shuttle bay of the larger of the Federation ships?"

A brief pause was heard, and the voice of Durayn was heard over the Jem'Hadar's communications system.

"Stand by, First, and I will find out."

The comm line closed, and the room buzzed with tension.

Picard couldn't help the sinking feeling in his gut that always seemed to herald the onset of widespread unpleasantries.

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Warren had given up attempting to reach the bridge. And had concluded that the situation was not to their advantage.

Which left the veteran marine officer with a dilemma. Move out, fight for information and attempt to seize the initiative, or remain in place and control any conflict while maintaining a secure perimeter around their primary focus, the table that enabled the _Sword_ to reach the next conflict zone.

"Brother-Sergeant Roberts, a word."

Brother-Sergeant Roberts, his 2IC for this mission and second most senior NCO of the company, was a hulking figure of a man, even for a space marine. The massive powerfist the man wore did nothing to dispel that image.

He was also utterly unruffled, and his clear thinking during any situation had been an emperor-sent blessing to Brother-Captain Richards, Brother-Captain Haruman, and Warren himself, on many an occasion before. Hopefully it would be so again.

"Sir?"

"What do you think, Brother-Sergeant? Should we go and find out what's happening, or maintain our position?"

Roberts' response was quick, and unequivocal, enough so as to be somewhat unnerving.

"We need to know what's going on aboard this ship, sir, or else we could end up unable to adequately react to what is going on outside those doors."

Roberts pointed with a finger of his powerfist at the main inboard door of the marine-occupied shuttle bay, before continuing.

"If communications to the bridge are down, and no other departments are relaying messages, that can only mean one of a few things. Either the ship is under attack, and there are widespread systems failures, which is unlikely given the lack of damage or movement here, or the ship has been captured in a surprise attack. Either option will require us to project force outside this area, or we risk destruction. We should move, and quickly, sir."

Warren nodded. _Silly of me to have thought otherwise._

"Very well then. Issue a warning order to the platoon. We move in five minutes."

Roberts nodded, and headed off, keying his comm-link and starting up concurrent activity.

Warren was thinking hard now. He had multiple objectives. But what was his mission? His mission was to protect the Table of Entuh'Prix.

Or was it? His tasking was to ensure that the _Enterprise_ could guide the _Sword of Lycurgas _to Bajor. It couldn't do that if it was in the hands of hostiles.

Warren mentally composed his orders. If nothing else, this would prove to be interesting.

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Durayn was confused. The Jem'Hadar that they had attempted to teleport to the _Enterprise_'s shuttle bay did not move. Transporters simply would not get a lock onto anyone or any thing on that level.

Durayn disliked variables. He had survived (in this incarnation, no less) for twice as long as the average Vorta, and he had done so by ruthlessly, relentlessly calculating for every advantage. It was how he controlled the only flotilla of Dominion raiders still in operation from the first Dominion War, not that he knew this.

Now there was a variable. And, as Durayn had long since established, variables made for deviations in the plan. As the plan inevitably led to his survival and advancement (to the glory of the Founders, of course), the plan going awry was not a good thing.

Fortunately, there were several hundred Jem'Hadar now on that Federation ship, all of which he regarded as expendable, if pushed.

So he keyed the comm-system.

"Durayn to First Ouitza."

It was less than a second before the Jem'Hadar First responded.

"This is the First, Vorta."

"There is some form of interference preventing the transporters from getting a lock. I am sending the warriors to you. Do with them as you will, but I suggest that you determine what is blocking transporter access to that area."

"Controller, there are Federationers down there. We should expect resistance."

"I leave that in your hands, First. Just keep that _Sovereign_ under control. We'll send over a prize crew as soon as one can be put together. Try not to destroy anything."

Ouitza knew that that was what passed for a joke amongst the ever-smug Vorta, so he had the courtesy to chuckle in response before killing the line.

Twenty Jem'Hadar warriors materialised on the bridge before his hand had finished its downward motion.

Excellent. A Fourth appeared to be the senior, and Ouitza addressed him.

"Your orders are simple, Fourth. Take this turbo-lift, and take it to the shuttle bay. Find whoever's in there, and kill them. Let them be an example against resistance to the Founders."

The Fourth snapped to attention.

"Victory is Life, First."

"Go. Let me know when you have accomplished this."

The Jem'Hadar loped off, and the First turned to the Federation officers held at gunpoint.

"Know this, Captain. We are keeping your men alive so that we can better learn how to operate this ship. Which we shall, one way or another. Any of your men that resist will be executed. Any who question will be executed. Those in your shuttlebay will be the first. Mark my words, Captain. Mark my words."

He turned to his Second.

"See to it that all Federationers that are not needed to operate the ship are held in the brig. If that's not big enough, use the cargo bays."

The Second turned to carry out the First's orders, but was interrupted.

"Don't leave them to their own devices. Keep armed guards on them constantly. They can be cunning vermin."

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The Deathbringer officer's words over the comm-net were clipped, precise, and matter-of-fact, belying the import they conveyed to his platoon.

"These are your orders, marines. Emperor guide us."

A chorus of acknowledgments rang back.

"The situation is as follows. We are the marine detachment assigned to safeguard the _Sword of Lycurgas_' guide to the battlezone around the Bajor system. We have lost internal communications, and have failed to re-establish them. This ship's current status is unknown. The friendly forces out there are of an unknown status. Hostiles are unknown. There are no civilians in theatre, to my knowledge. This is a warship. Anyone that does not fight by your side is an enemy you must crush."

He paused, and waited for questions on the situation. The next phase of the briefing was the most crucial.

"Our mission is to secure all critical locations and personnel in order to facilitate the _Enterprise_'s continuing role as guide to the _Sword of Lycurgas._ I say again, our mission is to secure all critical locations and personnel in order to facilitate the _Enterprise_'s continuing role as guide to the _Sword of Lycurgas_."

Questions would come later. But that was the task. The _Enterprise _had to remain spaceworthy, and in control of pro-Imperial or Imperial forces.

"Execution. The detachment will split into six five-man teams. I will take one, and the others will be the standard combat squads. Each combat squad will move to and secure a section of the ship and all Federation personnel along the line of advance, and in the objective area."

He paused, pondering his own words as he continued.

"All personnel ensure precision and control in movements and especially in combat. We are dealing with large quantities of sensitive equipment, which will doubtless be difficult and time consuming to replace. Your own safety, or that of our Federation allies, however, does take precedence. We can repair or replace damaged equipment. We cannot replace the dead."

"Brother-Sergeant Roberts. Take your combat squad, and secure sickbay. Brother-Corporal Graham, take and hold their teleporter control rooms. Brother-Corporal Stewart, armoury. I am taking Brother Tyquin and combat squad to secure the brig, where I expect key Federation personnel to be held, if they are still alive. The remaining two combat squads will hold here, and maintain our presence around the relic. Phase two will involve Brother-Corporal Stewart's unit and mine converging on the bridge. Brother-Sergeant Roberts, and Brother-Corporal Graham will push to engineering."

"Administration and Logistics. Ensure all personal equipment is at full readiness. Do not use flamers. Swap them out for plasma weapons or bolters. We are at standard combat load out. There is no resupply. There are no reinforcements. Between phases one and two, Brother-Corporal Stewart, your combat squad will provide weapons from their armoury to Federation prisoners we will release. These personnel will be used to hold positions that we have secured."

Warren listened over the comm-frequency for any response. Again, there was none.

"I am in command. If I am killed or rendered unconscious or combat-incapable, command will go to Brother-Sergeant Roberts. From him, to Brother-Corporal Stewart, then Brother-Corporal Graham. For command structure within your units, I'll leave that to your squad leaders. For this mission, be sparing with your use of the internal comm-net. We do not know who we are fighting, or anything of their electronic warfare capabilities. Squad leaders only on the command-net."

The quiet was more pronounced now. The air was thick with tense anticipation. Warren could feel his platoon, or almost feel them at any rate, taut and ready, like a coiled spring.

Or a loaded and cocked weapon.

"Make final preparations, and move out when ready. Emperor be with you all."

It is easy to forget, particularly with liberal chapters like Deathbringers, that Space Marines are not just humanity's foremost combat soldiers. They are holy warriors as well, and their faith is the shield of their psyche far more than might be understood by the Federation.

Brother-Lieutenant Warren started off the litany of preparedness, the rites of war spoken by Deathbringers at the cusp of battle.

"Faith is my shield, for faith is eternal, and even in death I shall continue to serve. I speak his word, so that the light of His mercy can be felt across the galaxy. I will gird myself in the arms of just fury and the armour of salvation."

As he spoke, the men around him took up the chant, a sonorous dirge of praise to the Lord of All.

"I will be strong in Him, for He is strength, and a narrow mind has better focus. Conversely, a broad mind lacks focus, and will bleed away my life force. My life, my soul, and my being."

Handles on bolt weapons were pulled back, and weapons rotated to the left, their masters gaze scouring breech chambers and moving down to magazines.

"I will remember always that it is better to die for the Emperor than to live for myself. He lights our darkest hour, watches over us and guides our hand."

Tyquin double checked the calibration on his weapon's sight, and slid his foot-and-a-half combat knife onto the bolter's bayonet boss.

"As power corrupts, I must be vigilant, against all foes of the Emperor, within and without. Never shall innocent blood be claimed, but the blood of the wicked shall flow like a river. At the last, I shall spread the wings of my blackened soul, and be the vengeful striking hand of the Emperor."

The single marine officer examined the thermal warning read-outs on his plasma pistol, glowing blue energy cell telling of its readiness for war.

"With the weapons of my order, the strength of my conviction, and the divine armour of His will, I will bring Death, in the Emperor's name, as we ever have, and ever will. His will be done, now and forever."

The sound of firing mechanisms moving forward, cocking handles clicking into breaches and close combat weapons sliding from scabbards echoed through the shuttle bay.

"Amen"

The main internal door to the shuttle bay blew towards the marines and shapes followed in its smoking wake. Cobalt energy beams flashed out, probing for targets to without success.

Red weapons rose in black gauntlets, and death's heralds stalked the halls.

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Silence.

To a Jem'Hadar, few things were as disconcerting as silence from the other end of a communication's device. And that is exactly what had happened to First Ouitza. Try as he might, there was nothing coming back to him from Fourth Pritak.

Pritak had said "moving", then… nothing.

And, as a Jem'Hadar, to Ouitza victory was very literally life. Failures were not provided with the White. And thus died.

Ouitza, in the moments before he vectored more of his operational reserves towards the shuttle bay, was briefly very fearful for his life.

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The first opposition that the Deathbringers had fought in this time had not impressed them. In fact, quite to the contrary. The distances were short, and at that range even the notoriously woeful Imperial Navy security teams couldn't miss.

Yet, some how, these xenos had managed to do so.

Not one marine had been so much as scorched by the strange energy weapons that the xenos had used. In fact, even the walls had only been blackened slightly.

This battle was going to be so one-sided that it was almost an affront to Warren's sense of honour.

Almost. But not quite.

He nodded to Brother Tyquin, who nodded back, then moved forward, bolter at the shoulder, bounding forward with Brother Sutherland. Warren wasn't sure what was covering the floors, but whatever it was wasn't making any noise to marine footfalls, a fact for which the brother-lieutenant was grateful.

Tyquin propped behind a doorway, bolter pointed down the axis of advance. Sutherland on the outside of the sweeping left turn, plasma gun pointing in the same direction.

Another nod, and two more marines swept past the brother-lieutenant, weapons pointed forward. One swung right, covering a corridor they were going to cross.

Then Warren and his partner moved, and the rolling advance continued.

It was almost hypnotic, the relentless advance. Bounding forward in pairs, trailing pair rotating to cover the rear. Hypnotic, but deadly in its intent.

Warren was at the front when his inhumanly sharp hearing detected the whoosh of a turbolift's doors opening. He stopped, and levelled his plasma pistol in the direction of the lift, and waited, while guttural speech echoed down the corridor. His brothers took positions also, alerted by their commander's movements.

The first of the xenos turned the corner, and Warren pulled the trigger, superheated blast of plasma scything straight through the creature's chest and out the other side, not so much hitting it as passing straight through it. It stopped moving and slid forward, face planting against the deck.

The reaction was one of complete bafflement. The couple of seconds that the shock lasted for were costly. The xenos kept moving forwards for that time, and the bang-whoosh of bolters and the angry high-pitched whining blast of plasma weapons spat death at the numerically superior xenos.

But they recovered, and withdrew, leaving behind nearly a dozen dead and the acrid tang of ozone from their energy weapons. Warren glanced down at his chest. A matt black patch on the left side of his chest informed him that he'd taken a direct hitfrom one of their weapons. He mentally shrugged and motioned with his pistol for the marines to move again. He'd had worse.

The marines were a couple of paces beyond the corpses before it occurred to Warren that the targets he had brought down hadn't been seen in the usual visible spectrum.

Ah. That'd be the source of their surprise.

Autosensors. Wonderful things.

Warren moved forward again, the in-contact combat procedures still in place, and he'd barely walked three places before an alien with a wicked looking scythed blade swung it down towards him in an arcing overhead blow.

The marine's power sword rose horizontally, and blocked the impact without moving. The demonic-looking xeno's face registered a flicker of surprise, a split second before a plasma pistol spoke, and tore through intestines, stomach and spine.

A blade fell from dying hands, as a still twitching torso was flung aside as the marines kept going.

Tactical control fell apart as the melee began. The xenos threw themselves at the Deathbringers, confident that they, like so many other human forces before them, would fall to the Jem'Hadar in close quarter battle.

But space marines were not like other human forces. Warren's sword whirled, killing three xenos in four strokes. Deathbringer tactical marines, for centuries schooled in the gritty art of using bolters as clubs, fought the Jem'Hadar to a standstill, and quickly despatched those who did not excel.

A whoop of triumph rang through the air as a burly Jem'Hadar warrior kicked a plasma gun from the side, then managed to get his huge machete-like weapon into the marine's abdomen – no mean feat through power armour.

The same marine's left hand grabbed the back of the alien's head, before a right cross made a wet clang as it impacted against the left hand's palm, sending a mess of blood in all directions as the head exploded. The whoop died as the Jem'Hadar did, its body flung back amongst its compatriots. Brother Hodge reached down and picked up his plasma gun as he pulled the xeno knife out of his intestines and cast it aside.

The pause while the xenos picked themselves up was brief, but it was enough. Bolter and plasma fire poured through the space where the melee had just been. Hell itself spoke into the corridor, for four seconds, then, as one, the marines ceased fire.

A couple more seconds passed in total silence, the six marines scanning the passageway with their weapons, eyes and ears.

"Clear. Proceed."

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The _Intrepid_ was not so fortunate. There was no Deathbringer presence on that ship. The Jem'Hadar First onboard had established comms with Durayn, and the _Intrepid_'s crew was being corralled into its cargo bays, those that weren't controlling vital systems at gunpoint.

The ship was sliding closer to the five Jem'Hadar attack ships that had pulled in around the two Federation vessels, and Durayn was far happier with progress there than on the larger vessel.

"Be advised, First, that there are some difficulties arising on the _Sovereign_ class ship, and while Ouitza assures me that he is able to bring those difficulties under control, I ask that you be prepared to transport some of your personnel over, nevertheless."

Though phrased politely, it was obvious to all concerned that it wasn't actually a question. The Vorta was worried. First Ouitza, while capable in his own right, was neither inspired nor imaginative, and his ability to ferret out Federation resistance, especially on the near-legendary _Enterprise_. Not that the Jem'Hadar knew of it. It could only serve to inflame over-zealous sentiment, or fear, neither of which was helpful to Durayn.

The First nodded.

"By your will, Controller. Victory is life."

The Vorta, as he often did, looked smug.

"Yes, it is. It is."

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Ouitza, with that very victoriously-inclined life in question, was becoming more and more concerned. While the initial assault had been spectacularly successful, all subsequent movements had been abject failures. Each successive group of reserves he mustered to the area had been lost, and no communications of any length had been received. Short, garbled transmissions, and a widening area of the ship where his units would simply vanish without a trace.

It was almost as if the ship itself was fighting him.

"First, we have lost contact with Second Koryesh in their sickbay."

The First spun round and drove his fist through a console. Sparks flew, and electricity scorched his arm, but he ignored it. The pain focussed his mind.

Victory was life. And it was slipping through his fingers like water.

"Whatever is killing my men, they will try to release the Federationers. Take forty warriors to the brig. Defend it with your lives. If the prisoners are released, kill them."

The third rose from his chair, nodded, and left the bridge.

Ouitza could only hope that the situation would change, and change quickly.

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Ryalak had no idea how he was going to explain to the Praetor what had happened here. The most powerful ship in the Federation, a combat medium-weight, and a Romulan heavy warship in its company, and yet the Dominion somehow still managed to seize control of both the Federation vessels.

How the Dominion flotilla had arrived HERE and NOW of all places and times was completely beyond the Romulan.

To add insult to injury, neither Federation ship showed signs of battle damage.

They'd been taken without a shot being fired. And the _Enterprise_, of all ships, under Jean-Luc Picard.

So Ryalak did the simplest thing he could do.

Which was nothing, and the _Minnkash'Maen _held station several hundred kilometres away, cloak up, waiting for something to change. Ryalak could only hope to… whatever… that whatever Picard managed to pull out of the famous _Enterprise_-hat would happen quickly. Time was very, very short on the other side of the Federation.

If they couldn't get the _Sword_ to Bajor in time to make a difference to the battle, the galaxy may very quickly find itself a very different place indeed.

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The Jem'Hadar aboard the _Enterprise_ were all slowly descending into a panic. Contact was being lost to team after team. The sound of screams was sometimes heard down the comm system as someone or other tried in vain to tell the First what was happening.

Either way, the elation they had felt as the Federation ship fell to them had long been replaced by a strange and morbid confusion.

What were the Federationers doing?

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Brother-Sergeant Roberts scanned sickbay. The place was a charnel house, but that didn't bother him in the slightest. His eyes barely took in the small mound of xeno corpses. Small by Roberts' standards, probably not by the Federation's at about six feet high.

The aliens had fought, but ineffectively. They lacked co-ordination en masse. Individually, they were almost universally surprised and killed. Small teams went down to aggressive advance and bolters.

Unfortunately, as far as Roberts knew, there was still no Federation personnel that had been talked to yet. The Deathbringer detachment had no idea what they were fighting, save that it wasn't all that menacing in a firefight.

He keyed into the command-net, and commenced his report.

"Romeo Zero Alpha, this is Romeo One. The Emperor protects, over."

"Romeo One, this is Romeo Zero Alpha. He is our strength and shield, over."

"We pierce the darkness, out."

Code phrases, in most part. But easy, effective ones. Phase two would begin soon. His eyes move back to the door, bolt pistol held easily in his hand, and gaze not even registering the Jem'Hadar whose heart he had torn out of its chest.

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The schematics that had been used by the Deathbringers put Brother-Lieutenant Warren's team right outside the brig's door. The drill was clear, and made movement much simpler.

Two pairs spun to the rear, weapons covering the passageway they had cleared, while an Auspex was held up to the door.

"Garbled readings, sir. It's hard to tell the different xeno species from each other."

Warren nodded. Unsurprising, if frustrating.

"Very well. Brother-Tyquin. Set charges on the door. We will execute breach pattern epsilon, and I have point. Any questions?"

None moved, red weapons steadily scanning the corridor behind them.

Tyquin moved up to the sealed door, and placed two melta bombs, one on each side of the sliding door, then stepped back and handed a photon flash flare from his grenade belt to the Brother-Lieutenant.

Warren took several steps back from the door, levelled his plasma pistol at the door, and spoke again.

"On three…"

The next few seconds would be interesting.


	28. Alea Iacta Est

Hello all. I am firing this one off at 0130 on the morning of July 12, on the last day of my leave. The reason I am saying this is because I am going to go to sleep, with my wife, and am going to do so in about five minutes.

Specifically, that means that I am not responding to all you nice people that so regularly review my work. No offence is intended and I hope none is taken. I promised myself that I would get this out to you all before I left on exercise (9 weeks worth... I have my own sympathies) and the only way to do this is if I post it tonight. This morning. Whatever.

I had planned on finishing the Icharian section here, but it looks like it will flow over onto one more chapter. Ah well. Gee damn.

Do I sound cynical today? Must be the time.

Reviews, as always, are greatly appreciated. Gives my often ill muse the health assistance it needs.

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The _Triarius _dropped out of warp space at the very edge of the Ichar system, moments before the _Leonidas_ followed suit. Passive scanners scoured the space immediately surrounding the two strike cruisers, and pronounced it clear. The atmosphere on the _Leonidas_' bridge was tense, and eerily backlit by the deep red of the status indicators, casting their shadows and proclaiming the highest state of readiness.

"Sirs, we have no tyranid vessels closer than the orbit of Ichar IV."

Lysander nodded. He'd hoped, and prayed, and the confirmation was gratifying. The next step would be heart rending.

They would watch a world start to die.

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Ichar had held the Great Devourer at bay for hundreds of years. Countless Imperial ships had docked here, taken aboard supplies, and left, mighty warfleets to turn back the hordes.

The first few years had seen the greatest victories. The Ultramarines had liberated, if you could call any planet under Imperial control "liberated", the planet from a genestealer infestation. Then one of the largest assemblies of force in recorded history had broken the largest of Hive Fleet Kraken's sub-fleets. Forewarned by the genestealer presence, the Imperium had moved remarkably swiftly. Upwards of a billion Imperial Guardsmen had reached the planet before the psychic blockade fell into place. Over two hundred space marines chapters had fought there. Nearly three thousand capital ships. Eight Titan Legions. Warhosts from dozens of Eldar Craftworlds. Here, at Ichar IV, hope was kindled in the war against extinction. And, here in the galactic east, the Imperium and the Eldar fought side by side far more often than not, because of that.

After the first Ichar IV campaign, hopes had been high for victory. They had the tyranids on the run, it had been thought.

The Kryptman Census had changed that, showing the Imperium the true extent of the Tyrannic incursion into their space. Trepidation had replaced confidence.

The Imperium mobilised. Forges worked four shifts. The Adeptus Mechanicus produced more in the first two years of mobilisation than it had in the past two centuries.

Slowly, however, the fleets had become fewer, and smaller, as casualties mounted. Now, Ichar itself was fighting for it's life, once more. The orbital dockyards at which the battlefleets Tempestus and Ultima had once docked were now little more than smouldering derelicts, their orbits decaying slowly.

And thirty-three ships were all that remained to defend the planet. Where once hundreds of Imperial ships had sat in the skies above the blue-brown orb, now there were none. Save the slowly encroaching organic tide.

Fighting had spread across the planet. The perimeters of four seperate hive clusters had been breached. Lomas itself was holding out, but only barely, with nearly half a million Imperial Guard on the front line.

Nemesis was where the fighting was fiercest, again, and where the Imperial Guard commander had decided to fight the Tyranids within the hive itself, so that their overwhelming numbers could be channelled.

Brigadier-General Grayson looked up as the distant boom of one of the five still functioning siege guns fired another shell off into the distance. He wasn't sure whether they were still aiming the things, not that it mattered. The shells could land virtually anywhere, and they'd still kill 'nids.

He looked back down, and studied the map again. He was used to maps studded with blue or gold flags, denoting Imperial units, squaring off against red flags, denoting hostiles.

There were no red flags. The computer operator had, perhaps appropriately, seen fit instead to apply red colouration to everything outside the Hive, and a growing portion of things inside the hive.

Everyone in Nemesis Hive was fighting. Not just the Guard and PDF. Some of the more notorious gangs had proved remarkably stalwart in defence of their territories. Rumours had long abounded that tyranid cratures from the last invasion still ran rampant in the underhive of Nemesis. Perhaps the effectiveness of these gangs served as testimony to some substance in those rumours. And of course, some gangs that had been held in near terror by the populace had shown no spine at all.

When the Tyranids were fought off - Grayson refused to put 'if' in that sentence -, the gangs that had fought well would be honoured by the people, and those that had not would lose standing, relatively. No if. No if. When.

Grayson watched his monitor in horror as a PDF company failed to report in. That company had only just moved into position. Not much, so it would seem, but with the hordes pressing on all sides, and casualties running high amongst the officer corps, Grayson was monitoring nigh everything at once.

He told his vox operator to signal the nearest units, and watched icons denoting the replacements move to the breech.

Underhive gangs rarely worked well in conjunction with Guard or PDF units. Both were effective, but in completely different ways. So it was with some reluctance that Grayson had ordered what was left of foxtrot company, barely a platoon's worth, to marry up with the Steel Rats, an underhive gang of some experience and even greater notoriety.

Captain Forsyth was the senior, with the Steel Rats' boss, a man identified only as 'Ignatius', being granted status as an honourary lieutenant. But the latter had been considered 'strong-willed'. Complimentary, it could be thought... but not to Imperial command.

Grayson fervently hoped that the breech could be stemmed. Lest it widen, and what passed for resistance in the Hive collapse entirely.

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The two black strike cruisers drifted through the vacuum of space, lights dimmed and main engines idling on absolute lowest power. Inertia was carrying them forward, and passive sensors strained to catalog each and every tyranid movement.

Aboard the unpowered ships, no one spoke a word. Crew and marines alike moved about in an eerie silence, as if even sound would give away their position to the tyranid fleets.

There was little chance of that. Both marine vessels had detection capabilities that the most recent intelligence reported to be considerably in excess of the tyranid methods.

But the plan called for complete stealth. The Imperium itself might ride on the movements of these two hundred and twenty seven space marines.

And so the two ships continued to inch their way through space, moving ever so carefully towards the embattled planet.

Lysander was meditating in his quarters. The veteran marine officer could contribute nothing to the running of the operation from the bridge, at the moment. If his presence was required, it would be asked for.

So he fortified himself for the coming fight. He had cleaned his powersword. It was old, older than him by a long way. It had been the sword of his predecessor, and his predecessor, and his before that. An ancient weapon, predating the chapter, its origins long since lost. Yet its edge remained as keen as it had ever been, glinting with subdued malevolence in the half-light.

He had disassembled, cleaned and reassembled his plasma pistol. Likewise an old weapon, it was of Lycurgan manufacture, and featured a temperature gauge next to the charge indicator. A precaution that was stunning not for its presence on Lycurgan plasma weapons, but for its lack of presence in the plasma weaponry of other chapters.

So he prayed. Prayed that his arm would not falter, and that his aim would be true. Prayed that his voice would be steady, and his resolution not falter. Prayed that his men would look to him as an example of the manifest will of the Emperor.

He prayed for the lives and souls of the men he lead, from Lycurgas and Nadgazad. He prayed for Ichar, for the burning, tortured world that struggled under the Great Devourer. Prayed to the Emperor, perhaps mostly, for the salvation of the Imperium, for hope in mankind's darkest hour, when the devourer of worlds grappled with mankind, with the fate of the galaxy the wager. Every lifeform would cease to exist as the nightmare pinnacle of Darwin's conceptualisaton out-fought, out-competed and out-evolved every species in every ecological niche of every climate, every continent and every world, before moving on to the next galaxy.

Lysander's eyes snapped open as his comm-link activated.

Not while Lysander yet breathed. Perhaps a statement of the obvious... he wouldn't be breathing if the tyranids absorbed all life in the galaxy. But Lysander had the will, and the means to effect the course of the war, and he would be damned if he let the chitinous bastards slip through his fingers.

Ichar would not be another Delden.

He rose to his feet as the active comm-link spoke.

"Brother-Captain, sir, the sub-fleet's Norn Queen is approaching high orbit."

"Understood. On my way."

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Ambitious would not even begin to describe the execution phase of Lysander and Revinius' plan. The timing would have to be perfect. Better than perfect. The timing was, in many senses, impossible.

But they would make it work. They had no choice. Failure was not an option. Failure here undermined every success that the two marine officers had ever had.

Circumstance shaped by fate, even as fate was shaped by circumstance.

The gamble was simple, and breathtaking.

By withdrawing from the system, the tyranids would have drawn a somewhat logical conclusion. That the battle was unwinnable, and the navy was pulling out. Unholy monstrosities they might be, but no one had ever accussed the tyranid race of lacking cunning and a calculating intelligence.

So, the hive fleet would begin its assimilation and consumption procedures. The first step of that was the silencing of the planetary defence guns. Then, the threat to the bioships neutralised, the fleet itself would descend and begin to process than planet's atmosphere. First to descend, as the mistress of the tyranid force, would be the Norn Queen.

And that is where the marines would strike. Lacking the naval firepower to destroy the vast creature while it was in space, they could nonetheless destroy it on the ground.

Revinius had wanted to nuke it. but had been convinced of the futility of the gesture. The bio-ship's electromagnetic shielding would cushion it from the blast. The marines had two seperate sets of objectives, if they were to make the mission count.

They had to get under the shields, on the surface, and destroy first the psi-resonators, to prevent the death of the Norn Queen from spawning two more, then detonate high yield explosives in three key neural centres to breach synapse relay capability. The Norn Queen would technically still be alive... but it wouldn't be by the time the Imperial Fleet returned and drove the unco-ordinated Hive ships from the system.

The fleet could then land the Imperial Guard reinforcements, and wipe out the tyranids on the surface.

There were two hard parts in the execution.

The first was when to launch the thunderhawks upon which the raid would commence. The goal was to time the departure so that the thunderhawks could reach the planet in time to intercept the Norn Queen on the ground. Too early, and the Norn Queen would abort its landing, and the tyranid air and space units would attack the Thunderhawks, en masse. Too late, and more tyranid ships could land, and provide ground defence, rendering the ground assault impossible.

A fine line. And one impossible to calculate. It was an educated guess, nothing more.

Lysander walked onto the bridge of the _Leonidas_ with these thoughts running through his head. It was like threading a needle with a straw...

"Estimated time of thunderhawks from launch to planetfall?"

"Fifteen minutes at full burn, sir."

"Norn Queen's time to landing?"

"At current rate, and assuming 2g landing, eighteen minutes, sir."

The marine nodded. That allowed three minutes for evasive manouevers, and accounted for modest risk to the inbound flight. It was as good as it was going to get.

"Hail the _Triarius. _Narrowband."

A tight package of encrypted information pulsed the hundred kilometres through space to the other strike cruiser. Revinius was already on the bridge, and it was he who answered.

"Go?"

"Aye. Right now."

"Ok. See you in the vacuum."

Short. Succinct. But necessarily so.

Time was something that was measured in blood.

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Korian looked up as the last of the runes slid into place. One of very few with two sides. The rune of the mon'keigh, its blue side facing the caster. Farseer Tareleyan, without looking up himself, spoke to the warlock.

"It is as I had feared. See this?"

An elegant finger gestured towards the rune of the Emperor, circling tight around the rune of decision. The blue side remained facing the Farseer, while the two runes together danced around the runic symbol for the Great Devourer, while that of Kurnous dove and withdrew from the interraction, close in tandem with _furta_. The rune of the future, and of time.

And the rune for the Eldar race itself hung suspended, with the rune of Khaine beneath it.

"The mon'keigh battle the devourer. and we must fight alongside them. The battle will be crucial. And all are hunted by something else."

Korian looked at his mentor, muted puzzlement on his deceptively young features.

"We cannot match the mon'keigh for force of arms. What may we contribute that they cannot? The devourer approaches on all sides. Where can we commit? With all due respect, Idiann, how do we fight on that scale?"

"Ionann beckons, esdainn. The mon'keigh will fall if their war with the devourer does not go well. If the mon'keigh fall, the devourer will take us, as well. Better to lose lives now, while defence has purpose, than to stake higher when the risk is greater."

Korian nodded, although his questions had not been answered. Farseers usually answered eventually, and often in a very roundabout fashion. Their minds sometimes struggled to remain focussed on the _now_, rather than the _tomorrow_. Furta and furte warring with the present.

"We will fight them, Korian. This, for them, is haranshemash. But, more than that. A question to you, esdainn. What hunts all of us?"

Korian was again puzzled, and moderately annoyed. Tareleyan was trying to further his study now?

"The Great Enemy, idiann. We are taught this from the creches."

Tareleyan frowned.

"Perhaps I am not clear. What is it that hunts all things? With infinite patience and complete success? That is the great enemy to all things?"

Korian did not answer. So Tareleyan answered for him.

"Time, esdainn. Time hunts us all. Time is crucial, here. But the runes say that it is hunting... and this is not good. It speaks of angau and kiomenad, doom and fate, and the destruction of what is, and what could be."

The farseer turned back to the floating, spinning and weaving runes, the artefacts of his craft, and spoke, as if to them.

"Muster the dyann-kionash, and make haste, esdainn. Time and destiny hang in the balance. We go to war."

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Lysander tried very hard to portray the part of calm leader. But he felt that he could have been doing better. Of course, being completely unable to do anything at all to alter his fate in the immediate future was not helping his state of mind.

It was strangely terrifying. Being shot at while in space was a remarkable experience. Untold megatons of explosive death hurtle past scant metres from the side of your decidely unmegaton-resistant gunship, and it makes nary a whisper.

He knew the physics of it. Could teach them, if for some bizarre reason a brother-captain of the Adeptus Astartes was called to do so. But he still found it unnerving, as another flurry of assorted tyranid bioweapons flew past his viewport.

"30 seconds to atmo, sir."

"Roger that. What's the status of the Norn Queen?"

The pilot didn't answer. He was far to busy attempting to both keep tenuous formation and prevent the thunderhawk from impacting with any of the warship-grade weaponry being hurled at them. If even one thunderhawk was hit, the explosion would be enough to wipe out every ship in the formation.

So, instead, the systems operator relayed the information.

"About 20 seconds before it touches down, sir. We're passing through the leading edge of the biofleet now. Another ten seconds, and they'll cease fire, to avoid hitting the Norn Queen themselves."

Lysander grinned at the thought, in spite of the situation. The idea of a salvo of tyranid weapons taking down their own synapse system was amusing.

The amusement vanished as Herald Lead broke into the upper atmosphere, nose going from black to blazing, incandescent orange in an instant. And from smooth to the point of no movement at all to... bumpy...

A glance out the viewport to his left, past the fiery bow wave of the gunship he was in, took Lysander's gaze to the first of the Dark Templar thunderhawks, all seven of them arrayed echelon left, above and behind him. It was a strangely beautiful sight as, one by one, their noses pierced the atmosphere and lit up like flaming orange...

thunderhawks...

He mentally shrugged. It was pretty. Lysander had never really felt the urge to wax lyrical about things like that. But now was different. Everything seemed sharper, now. Imminent death, and all that, he guessed.

Orders.

"Brothers, stand to. Prepare for landing. Brother-Lieutenant De Laan, you have your orders. Take and hold, brothers. We have covered this, in greater detail, aboard the _Leonidas_, but to needlessly refresh your memories, I will outline it again."

Heavy bolters on the gunships nose opened up, and a flight of gargoyles evaporated, spraying ichor up as the gunships passed through their remains. The ichor vapourised as it came into contact with the superheated hull. Gravity was felt again, as the whole formation slid right, avoiding a trio of surface to air battery blasts.

"We are to secure two of the three neuro-synaptic relays, while Brother-Centurion Revinius and his cohort secures the third. We are then to hold, in position, and repulse all tyranid counter-attacks, until Brother-Centurion Kedron and the 5th Cohort destroy the psi-resonator."

The formation lurched back to the left as lines of blue-green energy crackled past the birds. It was a miracle that none had been hit, so far.

"When we recieve confirmation, we set the timers on the melta bombs, and get back to the thunderhawks, for exfiltration."

A sudden deceleration and hard left bank told all that the pell-mell ride through Ichar's atmosphere was nearly over. A rough thud removed the "nearly" part, as the hatch dropped.

Lysander was the first out, of the first thunderhawk to touch down. Revinius was scant seconds behind him, out of his own thunderhawk, shield reflecting the weak light of Ichar's pollution-shrouded sun.

Lysander stepped to one side, and watched as black-armoured marines dashed out the back of the birds, and fanned out, weapons at the shoulder.

The thunderhawks didn't arrive all at once, and watching others land and disgorge their cargoes brought a thrill that Lysander hadn't had in years.

This was it. This was what space marines were. Special forces. Highly trained, superbly-equipped, ultra-motivated shock troops, designed for the hardest, fastest, most brutal taskings a commander could devise. The scalpel-blade that would move in behind a shield, slide through the thickest armour, and sever the crucial artery that holds an enemy together. Drop-zones, bridges, supply dumps, command posts, fortified positions...

Too many chapters used their space marines for jobs that could be left to planetary defence auxilia. A near criminal waste of resources, as far as Deathbringers were concerned. There were approximately a thousand brother marines. The Lycurgan Dominions had more than forty million planetary defence personnel, trained and equipped as Imperial Guard.

So this was how marines should be used, as far as Lysander was concerned. Strategic strike. Tactical operations with strategic ramifications.

And they didn't get any bigger than this.

He pulled his plasma pistol out, and drew his sword, and joined the third squad on the four hundred metre run to the...

He made the mistake of looking at the Norn Queen.

It was huge.

Lysander had fought many tyranids. Boarded their ships more than once. But the boarding actions had always been carried out from space, where a ship was a ship. Now, however, it was different. It was on the ground, and it was moving, and it was screeching something.

It stretched off into the distance, more than two kilometers high, with giant openings in the area of two hundred metres high, peppering its vast flanks. And, perhaps most startlingly, was the palpable aura of malevolence that seem to extrude from the monstrosity. Every fibre of his being suddenly wanted to turn and run, to flee from the death that it represented, to run from the terrible, oppressive malice streaming from it.

He fought down the urge, and pressed on, and, spurred by his example, his men did the same. He knew that they would have done the same regardless. His actions just made it happen sooner.

Four seperate detachments of marines reached the Norn Queen's flanks within fifteen seconds of each other. Squads dispersed and covered 360 degrees of perimeter, and froze in place, in time to watch the thunderhawks make another run at each other. The big gunships raked heavy bolter fire over each other sweeping tyranids off their armoured sides.

Kedron spoke first over the comm-net.

"In position."

De Laan was next.

"Prepped and ready."

Lysander.

"The Emperor protects."

And, ending the process, Brother-Centurion Revinius spoke the words that over two hundred marines had waited for.

"Initate."

Nearly a dozen seperate explosions roared to life, and purple blood gushed from wounded sides as the echoes faded. Revinius spoke again, as he brought his power sword up, watching a trio of hormagaunts race around the corner ahead of him.

"Brothers..."

Bolters rose around him as Dark Templar Legionnaires prepared readied themselves. So many things could be said. So much that would be left unsaid. So much to beseech, to entreat, to encourage and to remind.

But nothing that wasn't already known, to all his brothers, Templar or Deathbringer. Nothing remained to be said. Save for one.

"Fight well."

A hormagaunt lept forward, and the Brother-Centurion thrust forward his blade to meet it.


	29. Gideon

liljimmyurine: He did.

The Sithspawn: Not soon enough, was it?

grayangle: She is usually very understanding. Less so, of late. Life is busy. Why is life busy? It was always so easy.

Enedorii: My thanks. Compliments are good.

Chaos Mauler: A running theme. Personal adaptation by personal trauma. Brings out the best and worst in people.

That Swedish Guy: Done. Posted. Unburnt. But busy.

Blue Lucied: 'Nids ARE scary. My over active imagination gives me 'nidmares.

bob the builder mafia man: More is here.

Norsehound: I like the way you think. Keep it up. Smart is good. Feel free to analyse away.

legacy zero: Necromunda was a great game. Check it out, if you have the time.

virus05: ... maybe :P

The rest of you: Many apologies. My wife will eat me if I wait any longer to post. Will try to review your reviews next post. I've been slow... but I will finish this...

Oh, and my wife any I are expecting our second, come July. Yay us. The Lord said "Go forth and multiply." So we are...

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There was very little warning. One instant, the Jem'Hadar were standing guard at key points of the brig. Next instant, a blinding flash had everyone reeling.

The flash was like nothing that the born-blind engineer had ever experienced before. Throughout his life, all the visual aids he'd been provided with, as well as granting him sight that was in many ways superior to that of most humans, had shielded his optic nerve and brain from much of what went on that would otherwise generate discomfort.

But now, this was something entirely new. La Forge clutched his hands over his head and eyes, and screamed, as his cerebellum overloaded, keeling over as his sense of balance shorted out in turn, his sight soundlessly assailed by hyper-intense waves of visible-band photonic energy.

He felt, rather than heard, the chaos around him as others also succumbed to the effects of the strange weapon. Blasts and sounds roared through the enclosed space, disorienting him still further.

The echoes receded as La Forge's sight returned. Returned, and settled upon a charnel house.

Black armoured wraiths slid across the floor, blood-red weapons pulled in tight to shoulders, the evidence of their brutal effectiveness slumped in messy pools on the floor and walls. The Jem'Hadar Third that had stood next to the forcefield now lay on the ground, left shoulder and arm missing from the base of the neck, along with a third of his chest. No phaser burns scorched these bodies. Basketball-sized chunks gaped at the Federation officers, and gasps of astonishment rose as others saw the bloodshed wrought in so short a time. Many pairs of startled eyes watched the eerie precision of their rescuers.

A Jem'Hadar warrior croaked, spluttering blood as he tried to pull his head of the ground, trying to haul himself upright with his one remaining arm.

La Forge jumped, aghast, as the crack of a Deathbringer weapon pushed the Jem'Hadar down again.

Heads turned once more as the imposing visage of the Space Marine commander drew attention, red officer's cloak billowing out behind him, pistol weapon smouldering in his left hand.

"Clear."

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Brother-Lieutenant Warren was an aberration amongst Deathbringers. He was one of only three brother-marines not born within the Lycurgan Dominion, but rather a native of Redira IV, a world twenty light years from Lacedaemonia III, the nearest Lycurgan planet.

Rediran Imperial Guard units had often fought alongside Deathbringers and Lycurgan PDF units, and camaraderie was strong. Thus when Redira was hit by a surprise attack from the Dark Eldar Cabal of the Twisted Glaive, Deathbringer unit were, somewhat predictably, the first to respond.

In classic Dark Eldar style, the planet's command and control infrastructure had been struck first, and the initial confusion had cost the Rediran PDF dearly, as Dark Eldar forces roved and raided with near impunity.

Thus the first, and most important, contribution that the Deathbringer 1st Company, under Brother-Captain David Garrett, made was the re-establishment of order in the Imperial forces on Redira. The ponderous imperial units, however, were unable to pin down the fast moving Eldar forces, though they had been driven away from the slave-rich Hive Clusters.

Attacks on outlying settlements continued, as the cabal tried to draw the first company elements away from the primary webway gate, located near the largest Hive Cluster.

Intra-planetary webway gates, however, kept the Dark Eldar mobile, and their supply dumps remained elusive. Orbital scans had, in turn, failed to discern their primary on-planet stronghold's location although intelligence reports suggested that it lay somewhere within Redira's extensive mountain ranges.

Guerilla war raged for six months, as Deathbringer and Rediran Guard units frantically tried to flush the Cabal out, Brother-Captain Garrett driven to find his brother marines and the Rediran citizens, and to spare them as much suffering as he could. The veteran marine knew full well the quality of the hospitality of the Dark Eldar.

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For a second, a flicker of a second, seeing the Federation officers imprisoned brought memories of a dark part of Brother-Lieutenant Warren's past flashing before his mind's eye.

_The child's head jerked back and it screamed. Not just a scream of pain, but of complete and utter anguish. The scream of one for whom all hope has left and all resistance but a fading memory. One for whom pain was all existence, and for whom life itself was merely a pale reflection of the promise of future agony. _

_The twisted and macabre shape of the haemonculus hummed to itself as it finished slicing away another strip of skin along the boy's back. _

_'You do sing so prettily, little one. Your voice has such lovely overtones...'_

_Nerve fibres, exposed to the open air, spasmed as the haemonculus flicked the neural relays hanging from the torn skin._

_A fresh scream, ear shattering in its intensity, echoed throughout the gloom, halting and turning to a rasping pant, accompanied by the chuckles of the haemonculus._

_'One could listen to the ballads of Eldanesh or Lileath for a hundred rotations, and still not hear a sound so sweet.'_

_A twitch of defiance flared, and the youth raised his head, long and matted hair in front of his eyes, blazing hatred at his captor._

_The haemonculus, a master of the art of pain for centuries, saw it, and smiled again. He began to talk, as if speaking to a slow pupil, incongruous for an audience of one._

_'There is an art here, dear little one. Pain is an art in itself, and a pleasurable one, to be sure. But the highest form of that art is the pleasure of the pain of the soul. And, like all pleasures, variety is the spice of life. What better, then, to receive that variety from the same dish?'_

_A foot long Dark Eldar knife slid under the flesh part of the boy's arm, suspended as it and he were by the chains around his wrists. _

_Another scream turned into a roar of rage, and the youth shook his bonds impotently. _

_The haemonculus continued, unperturbed._

_'So, to obtain such variety from one dish, as one must when food is scarce, one must be a true artist. In your case, the application of words and silence... moving you from despair to defiance, only to enjoy the immense satisfaction of breaking the defiance down again.'_

_The smile turned malicious once again._

_'So, let us begin...'_

_A blue-hot flame rose, and heat seared into the exposed nerve endings. _

Inexplicably, two months later, a lone reaver jetbike, piloted by a mutilated and traumatised young boy, fled the Cabal's fortifications in the Harkain mountains. Orbital scans detected it within seconds, and it was picked up by Thunderhawk.

Deathbringer response was swift and merciless. Brother-Captain Garrett lead fifty terminators in a lightning raid, pinpoint teleportation sealing all exits from the base, before methodically clearing the facility, room by room and corridor by corridor. The Cabal of the Twisted Glaive, ten millennia-old product of the Fall, died in a single day.

Redira rejoiced.

And the bloodied and scarred Andrew Warren was taken under the blackened wing of the master of the first company.

As a scout in the tenth company, Warren was taciturn, curt and introverted. He excelled in all forms of combat taught by the chapter, but didn't assimilate well. Further, to the dismay of many, showed no regard for faith in the Emperor.

He was disciplined twice by the platoon Deacon, and word got back to Brother-Captain Garrett. He and the then-Reclusiarch Hensher took the scout out into the biting cold wilderness of Lycurgas' north ranges.

The three marines returned two months later, and Scout Warren was a changed man.

With a new zest for life and a wildly different outlook, there was barely a passing resemblance to the bitter young man he had been.

Grand Master Ragarik was coy, and the three who'd undertake the sojourn refused to discuss it.

Warren had moved from strength to strength, and rapidly began to display the laconic humour for which Lycurgans generally, and Deathbringers in particular, were renowned.

He became a Sergeant on Armageddon under Brother-Captain Richards, in the frantic and desperate battles the chapter fought to the north of the Phoenix Bridge, and a Brother-Lieutenant against Tyranids during a boarding action on the Eastern Fringe, as part of Lysander's 2nd Company.

But it was the Beta Mithrax campaign that forged the youthful officer into a tactician, as well as a leader, when he was the anvil to the then-Brother-Lieutenant Haruman's hammer.

When Haruman took control of the 4th, Lysander recommended that Warren transfer at the same time, a decision that the Grand Master supported.

Now, the presence and experience that over a century of violence had granted stood towering over the Federation officers, who looked unsure of who's care they'd rather be in... the Jem'Hadar or the Deathbringers.

Warren moved over to the energy barrier, and placed his armoured hand where the barrier should be. Sure enough, the resistance was fairly strong.

An armoured finger pressed three buttons in sequence on the forcefield release panel to the barrier's right.

It bleeped un-cooperatively.

Said armoured finger was then joined by three of its compatriots, and a thumb, the five digits proceeding to make further contact with the release panel, at notably higher velocity.

A resounding crash, along with a collection of sparks and ricocheting shards of metal and plastic, heralded the field's deactivation.

The marine officer turned his eyes back towards the newly released Federation personnel.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I greet you in the name of the Emperor. My men and I will now escort you back to your duty stations."

Right on time, Warren's vox activated, the voice of Brother-Sergeant Roberts coming over.

"Phase one complete, sir. Combat teams three and four prepared for phase two."

Warren activated his own comm.

"Acknowledged. All units, proceed with phase 2. Purity above all."

"Purity above all. The Emperor protects."

The Brother-Lieutenant smiled. These enemy, whoever they were, had absolutely no idea what they were dealing with.

Picard caught the smile and, in what seemed to be an increasingly common occurrence, felt the hairs on his back stand on end, and fought the urge to shiver at the sudden chill.

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Deep Space Nine had become the mustering point for the largest warfleet assembled since Cardassia Prime.

The previous action, which had seen the death of no less than two Dominion Battleships, had galvanised the Federation and its Klingon allies. Vulcan's small navy had arrived, and what passed for the Bajoran Militia was also present. Trill, Andoria, Betazed, and others had sent task groups. Even a handful of up-gunned and cash-strapped Ferengi cruisers had joined the growing fleet presence.

In total, nearly four hundred ships hung in the space around the fortified station, which had itself moved closer to the mouth of the wormhole, bringing its own highly potent armament to bear, a discussion that had been hotly debated.

But the fleet that was expected to exit the Bajoran Wormhole numbered in the thousands.

Unless something changed, drastically, the allied fleet would be little more than a nasty speed bump.

As far as Admiral Janeway was concerned, that drastic change was, if all went well, the _Sword of Lycurgas_.

Picard, however, had not reported back, and attempts to hail the _Enterprise_ over subspace had failed. Normally, Janeway would had dispatched another ship, or even a squadron, to establish what had happened to the _Sovereign-_class ship and the smaller _Intrepid_. Now, though, there was just nothing available for the task.

Jean-Luc was on his own.

Colonel Kira had provided the Admiral and her small staff with quarters on the station, which were more than adequate for her requirements. The station promenade, even devoid of non-combatants, served nicely as a place to clear the mind as well.

Chakotay had been his usual hugely helpful self, and had got on extremely well with Kira, a common bond forged fighting the Cardassians for years, despite having never met.

As if summoned by Janeway's thoughts, the man materialised at her elbow, cup of coffee in hand.

Janeway smiled and nodded her appreciation, taking the proffered beverage.

"Thank you, Chakotay."

"You're missing out on sleep again."

The laugh she gave was more a product of exhaustion than a reflection of her staff officer's humour.

"Is this going to be another one of your 'you're not effective if you're over tired' lectures?"

He grinned.

"Should I bother?"

She grimaced.

"Point made. But there are quite a few ships out there that are relying on my directions."

"And there are that many captains and squadron commanders that are operating very nicely on your current orders, and alliance SOPs. Any directions you give tonight will be suspect. Give yourself a break, and get some sleep."

Janeway leant back, and pushed her chair from the desk.

"For form's sake, I should protest. But in light of your peace offering..."

She indicated the coffee.

"Does that mean you'll sleep?"

She chuckled and got up.

"Yes, it does. I'll sleep. Make sure I'm up by 0600, eh?"

"Sleep, remember? Not 'lie in bed for five hours thinking about the same things, then get up and keep going."

"I'll be fine, Chakotay, really. I'm not..."

"0700, Kathryn. You haven't slept in days."

The Admiral appeared to deflate before his eyes. Surrender was made very clear in her posture, even before she said the words.

"Ok, I give up. I'll sleep."

Chakotay smiled, his mission accomplished.

"Good. I'll leave you to it then. See you in the morning."

He spun on his heels, then stopped at the Admiral's voice.

"Chakotay, why did you bring me coffee if you want me to sleep?"

He laughed, and Janeway cocked her head in puzzlement.

"Self-preservation."

He was halfway out the door, when he was brought up short again.

"Chakotay."

He stopped, and waited.

"Thank you."

He nodded once more, and left, the doors swishing shut behind him.

Janeway stood, and slowly moved towards her wardrobe, then spoke again as she prepared for bed.

"Computer, set alarm, audio, for 0630h, station time."

The computer beeped twice.

"Alarm time confirmed."

She sighed, and yawned, and moved to her bed, thinking nice thoughts about sleep.

Outside, Chakotay paced, mentally counting down five minutes. At five, he spoke into the space around him.

"Computer, identify alarm time set by Admiral Janeway, authentication Chakotay Theta five eight one six."

"Admiral Janeway's alarm is set for 0630h, station time."

He chuckled. As if she'd really give herself time to sleep...

"Computer, deactivate alarm, and notify me when she wakes up."

"Command input acknowledged."

He shook his head. She'd be furious when she woke up, but at least she would have slept...

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Picard walked over to his command chair, pushing the mangled corpse out of it. It hit the deck with a muffled thud. It was remarkable, he thought. Nearly

three hundred Jem'Hadar had teleported aboard, and now they were all dead. Damage to the ship itself was negligible.

Even here, on the bridge, ten Jem'Hadar had died. But not a single stray round had scored the panelling.

Except around the turbolift. Jem'Hadar rifles had well and truly burnt into the area around the turbo-lift. It hadn't done much more than disrupt the paintwork on the Deathbringer's armour.

What madness that this was humanity's future.

What madness that it was humanity's only chance to have a future.

Personnel, to a man, paused as they exited the turbo-lift, streaming in from all over the ship. The bridge was a blood soaked mess.

Tactical station squawked. The rest of the universe wasn't going to wait for them to clean up their bridge.

"Sir, sensors are reading massive subspace distortions, centred right on top of the Dominion flotilla."

"On screen."

Space roiled and shimmered, and the six smaller attack ships seemed to wobble, then turn.

"They're trying to evade. Something's..."

They were too late, as the gargantuan bulk of the _Sword of Lycurgas _entered realspace right on top of them.

They became uninteresting additions to the outside hull armour.

Opportunity had struck, and Picard was not about to squander it. He pressed the comm button on his command chair.

"Commander La Forge, teleport all Jem'Hadar life signs from the _Intrepid_ to the

_Sword_'s main cargo bay. Lieutenant Brennaman, inform the _Sword _that they have guests aboard."

When Brother-Captain Haruman heard the news that there were xenos aboard his ship to be interrogated, he was more than slightly surprised to hear the sounds of cheers in the background of the Federation ship.

Picard allowed himself a savage smile.

They were coming.


	30. His Will be done

Hello my faithful readers. Did you miss me? Hope so... if you didn't I'd be mighty put out. No, I'd forgive you. My writing volume is impacted by the unfortunate presence of such irksome things as real life, and the requirement to eat.

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Smallfish: Did that drop pod land in your backyard?

Huh: Thank you for your analyses. They are always interesting, and well worth my read. More food for thought, in every case.

Rroan: That, the meeting of cultures, is how the story is interesting, and, to me anyway, not simply another 40k slugfest, fun though they are. Thank you also for your compliments.

Bienvenido S. Canonizado: Recent events have given me a unique appreciation for your plight. This chapter has been written entirely in size 36 font, and I haven't driven in months. Further, that computer voice that comes with the PDF program is really poor. Any suggestions? And, of course, thank you for your detailed thoughts regarding my work... I find it very therapeutic, and a good diversion from my somewhat pressing health concerns at the moment.

Dominius Anaetheron: Space Marines rock. In combat terms, certainly, but their power lies in their independence. Within an Imperial system, the concept of independent armies is remarkable, particularly with the degree of autonomy they are granted. THAT, coupled with their individual prowess and control of their planets, along with a hearty dose of pride, is what makes them dangerously susceptible to the 'ubermenschen' attitudes you point out.

Smithklein: Get out of my head. Answering your review in any detail would give away plotlines :P. You remain, as ever, surprisingly perceptive.

Nefar: Yes, I do plan on updating soon. Quite soon. Now, sounds good, actually...

Trasaric Comnenus: Janeway is being used more because she was theatre commander when the problem came up, and had already been lobbying to increase battle readiness in the sector. To be quite frank, I'm a little surprised she was made Admiral at all.

LegacyZero: Thank you for the congrats. My wife has 4 months to go. She's very cute, but thinks she's fat. She's just pregnant and sensitive, but also very stubborn. You may find this chapter's length more to your taste, incidentally...

The Sithspawn: The Sword is beyond comprehenson. DS9 wont get it, until they see it. I'm looking forward to writing that bit.

Duken: There is always method in the madness. And sometimes madness in the method...

Shortyland05: There is most definitely starcraft to WH40k similarity. Because starcraft ripped off 40k. In a good, but very different, way. Stick with the Army. And you Kiwis are without a doubt some of the best in the world. I'd much rather have you lot backing me up than... well... you guys are good.

Wirespeed91: Warhammer warp IS faster than ST warp, but is more unpredictable, and requires extremely precise navigation, which cannot be accomplished properly without a reference point.

Some person: Thank you. I aim to please.

Somos: Cheers. Are you working yet? 'Cos we're all worried about you.

Grayangle: My children will survive, and flourish, because those are their orders. I didn't ask for their input :P...

Shinova: The story. It lives. It's a monster. And it needs to feed. Feed it. FEED IT!! Ahem. Sorry.

Dartz-IRL: You are 100 spot on. THAT is one of the central themes of this work, and I am glad you have seen it.

Liljimmyurine: bow Why thank you. The pleasure is mostly mine. And my wife's. I like to think she enjoyed it as well :)

Duckman154: I did think that you might enjoy the hull reference. I was actually thinking of your reaction as I wrote it... Help Somos get work. Poke him relentlessly. And also enjoy the girly squeals. In a loving and unselfinterested way, of course.

Pipboy: This story will be finished. Come blindness, pregnancy or drought, although I give no guarantees on time frame.

Juubi Karakuchi: I return the compliment, and await more of your fine work. You'll see where the link comes at this piece's conclusion...

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Before I forget, would any of you be willing to purchase (cheap) a strategy guide, were I to publish one? The collation of 14 years of WH40k gaming experience as Space Marines. Let me know in reviews, if you'd be so kind. If you wouldn't be, let me know as well... But only if you want to... don't feel pressured... really. No pressure...

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Tomorrow (as I post) is Easter. Spare a thought for Him, who died for us, while we were still His enemies. He will return. You ready for it?

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The corridors were dank, and seemed to swallow sound. Mucus dripped from oval passages, and doorways weren't so much doors as sphincters that opened to meltabombs. Auspexes went haywire. Lifesign readings weren't worth squat when the whole Emperor-damned ship was alive.

Movement.

Revinius lashed left with his shield, and resistance notified him that yes, the front had indeed hit something. Without looking, he drove his power sword in behind it, pulling his storm shield away at the last minute.

Powered metal cut through chitinous armour, and a high pitched squeal signified the onset of the next wave.

Minutes passed in a welter of ichor. Revinius' black-and-green armour had a grisly washed out violet tinge, like a ghastly purple aura. Two full squads of his cohort had vanished without a trace, and prayers to the Emperor for lost brothers -and lost geneseed- seemed to be falling on deaf ears.

Haste warred with caution. Too fast, and the cohort would be ambushed and would take unacceptable casualties... and lack the force required to complete the mission. Too slow, and either the over-stretched Deathbringer company or the grotesquely understrength cohort of Brother-Centurion Kedron would be overrun, and the effort would fail outright.

Lysander had secured one of his company's two neuro-synaptic relay objectives, and time was short - 15 minutes - before Kedron was supposed to be in position at the psi-resonator. So there was 15 minutes left to secure two of the three neuro-synaptic relays.

It had been a tall ask from the beginning. The two hundred and twenty seven marines were supposed to achieve what entire armies of Imperial Guard, whole battlefleets of the navy, and full strength legions of the Adeptus Titanicus had failed to accomplish. The true-death of a Norn Queen.

His body was on autopilot, training operating his limbs. Blade to the left. Parry. Strike. Follow through, blade to the right, slash, parry, kill. Boot to the front, shield left, bludgeon, blade to the front, kill. Duck the claws to the front, blade forward, shield up, blade down. Brother-Centurion Revinius, even while he pondered higher strategic ramifications and concepts somewhere in his mind, was very much inclined to stay alive. He ducked another clawed limb, rolled between the legs of a... something... and stood, plunging power sword straight up into the thing's midsection, in to his elbow, wrenching the weapon clear and rolling to his feet, the monstrosity crashing to the floor where he had been.

He shifted his weight to one foot, leaning to the left as a purple blur hurtled past, all claws and fangs and teeth, raising his blade at the last second, tyrannic roar turning to verminous scream as two halves collapsed to his side.

Bolters spoke behind him, and an unknown number of smaller tyranids died as Squad Vegetius covered his position. Still the creatures came on, the Norn Queen defending herself from the influx of foreign bodies.

Claws lashed out and were severed by blurring blades, and a tyranid head was staved in by a ceramite-clad foot.

Tyranids ahead front. Tyranids to the rear. tyranids to the left, tyranids to the right. Even as his sword and shield blurred into motion again, his subconscious whispered another observation.

This planet was infested in the worst possible way. It would take decades, centuries even, to cleanse Ichar IV of the Devourer's minions.

That would be mopping up, his conscious countered. The war is won here, if it is won at all. There would be countless lives lost after this action. But if they succeeded here, then the outcome was assured.

Jump clear, counterslash, parry, block, shield-bash. Hormagaunts and Termagants never quite seemed to know how that one worked. He gave a mental thank you to whichever one of his trainers taught him to use his shield as a weapon.

He reversed his grip on his blade, and drove it through a tyranid sternum in a savage downstroke.

The voice of Legate Brutilius, echoed through Revinius' mind, memories from a time several centuries ago, while warp storms still ringed the Nadgazad system, isolating it from the Imperium. The same storms had held the Dark Templars prisoner within their home system, an entire legion of loyalists unable to assist during the Heresy. Not held in time-stasis, as the traitor legions were, but simply cut off. A system in isolation.

Brutilius, then a centurion, had said to Revinius, an optio;

_Brother, an inch of thrust is worth three feet of slash._

Parry, parry, damn that'll sting, thrust-kill.

Revinius had, once, been a thinking, feeling man. He still thought, but it wasn't the man that did so. It was his consciousness, as disconnected from him as he was from the thunderhawks that still desperately strove to maintain their landing zone for the marine exfiltration. His body was moving autonomously, centuries of combat moving his muscles with a grace bellied by his bulky, ornate armour.

A backhanded slash severed a 'gaunt's head from its shoulders, the toothed maw wide as it spun away to the brother-centurion's right. His gaze snapped back to the left as a larger creature rounded a corner.

Carnifex, his mind supplied.

Great, his consciousness stated as it slid seemlessly back into his body. He absently thought that he preferred it watching in that detached fashion it seemed to take on during a portracted melee.

He raised his powersword, whispered prayers to the Emperor on his lips as the monstrosity came charging towards him. The powersword was 3 feet of energised plasteel. The storm shield an ancient, powerful relic, a tower-type shield, five feet high and two feetwide.

It felt he was facing a rhinoceros with a kebab-stick and a serviette.

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Lysander squeezed the trigger on his plasma pistol once, twice, then a third time, blue-bright blasts of super-heated matter impacting with three hormagaunts, their chittering cries fading away as Brother-Sergeant Theodorous set the last of the melta-bombs in place on the neuro-synaptic relay secured by the half-company Lysander was accompanying, and informed his commander as such.

"Brother-Captain, charges have been set."

Lysander fired again, plasma fire burning a scything furrow through the chest of... something... It was dead. He didn't care any more.

"Acknowledged, Brother-Sergeant. Brother-Lieutenant De Laan, status?"

It was a couple of seconds before the man resopnded, and Lysander could hear the strain in his voice.

"Progress is slow, Brother-Captain, and resistance is heavy. Heavy and increasing."

"Casualties?"

"Eleven so far."

That he meant dead was without saying. Eleven dead from fifty. 22 of Brother-Lieutenant De Laan's force strength. Technically speaking, his force had been neutralised. In practice of course, they were Space Marines, and would push on. But never in his four centuries of warfare had Brother-Captain Lysander heard of such atrocious casualty rates amongst Deathbringers. His company had, including those lost under him, now lost 18 percent of its combat power killed. Decades to recover...

In this situation, the wounded walked and fought. Or were carried, and fought, if possible. Or they formed a rearguard, and fought. Or died where they fell. Something along those lines.

This time, their geneseed would more than likely stay where it fell. Marines loathed leaving geneseed behind. It was who they were, what made them marines, and was the future of the chapter.

It was also the embodiment of the sacrifice of the fallen.

Lysander gave the matter no more than four seconds of thought. Focus. Grieve later.

"How long, brother?"

"About five minutes, sir."

Lysander nodded, not even realising he was doing it.

"Acknowledged. Be quick. Time is short."

The brother-captain cast his gaze across the psi-resonator chamber. Sloping, rib-like apendages ran across the floor, and there wasn't a straight line anywhere in sight. Everything pulsed, flowed, oozed or twitched.

It felt wrong, unclean, as if the very fabric of reality cried out against the monstrous blasphemy that was this, the focus of the tyranid race.

Something fell from the roof, a blur of movement barely reaching the floor before it moved again.

Lysander's plasma pistol sang again, marine reflexes still sharp despite his growing fatigue.

His mind urged De Laan onwards, willing him to advance. Inch by bloody inch, if necessary, but that neuro-synaptic relay had to go down. Everything else, even the loss of the entire company, was secondary to that.

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Tareleyan barely noticed the infinitesimal lurch that heralded the exit from the waygate. Of far more concern to him were the readouts from the bridge of the _otIarstill_, a heavily modified _Shadow-_class cruiser,indicating their presence in the Ichar system.

He pursed his lips, a rare open display of worry. The runes had not lied. They never did. But they hadn't quite been as clear as he had made out to his warlock student Korian.

The runes for furta and furte, present and future, are often ambiguous, depending on where the mind of the caster is at the moment that he casts the runes.

The runes had told Tareleyan that the situation on Ichar IV was pivotal, dire and worsening.

The runes had been cast when the Farseer's mind was in the present. The situation; desperate, but salvagable.

Now it was the future, and the situation was salvagable no more. The degree of danger had been clearly dire... but it had not been quite certain on just how dire.

Tareleyan had been at Iyanden when the ranger Irilith told of the magnitude of the Tyranid threat. Had been a warlock at the time, with a high regard for his own highly potent capabilities. Had scoffed when the woman had told of how every Eldar aboard Iyanden would have to gird for war. Nearly remembered her words now, as the past slid easily through the Farseer's near-infinite mind.

- _Flashback _-

The woman was short for a ranger, who tended to be physically hardier than their compatriots from the craftworlds. Her cameleoline battlecloak was well worn, and her features lacked the refined, almost polished features that the mon'keigh so admired amongst the Firkionash (Craftworld Eldar). But the long rifle across her back, and rugged features proclaimed many years of travelling, adding weight to her words for those who were wise enough. Tareleyan, still young then, at less than 200 years, was not one of those, however. He was far more concerned that the great Farseer Kelmon had called for him, in his capacity as a warlock of the Halle'Iesu craftworld, to listen to the debate within the Iyanden great hall about the imminent arrival of one of the two largest subfleets of Hive Fleet Kraken.

The debate had stalled. Civilities were not being observed. Courtesy was a very optional thing, so it appeared.

The last speaker had argued for erecting a Fiallathandirel (psi-shield, 'wall against evil') around the Craftworld, and awaiting the arrival of reinforcements from other craftworlds, or Mon'keigh fleets, which had declared their intention to assist when possible.

It had seemed feasible, even likely. Years could pass before the Eldar psi-reserves were depleted.

But the assembly had gasped in disbelief when Irilith had began to describe the true threat posed by the Tyranids.

The voice of a scoffer rang out from anonymity.

Irilith was scathing in her reply, anger creasing her features, a display of lack of control that would have been unbecoming, were she not a ranger.

"iam CreagLiam Aual am? Bonnikel. Iam illkionash Iyanden. Iam liran tial tharaIlirun. Iam thelriann thara breaga Aual am? Garisam jois kelTiusich iamam? (I tell you lying stories? Think about it. I am no longer of Iyanden. I have a home far from these domes. Why would I come here to decieve you? How can it avail me?)

The murmurs quietened, although only briefly. The ranger was a skilled speaker, and seized her moment.

"Aual furtaman, Aualesh! Da Aual koruan gceilan ucan uelasskam koem Enad uom Baharr, an uel furtaMure. Na Aual aill-ucan uel a'ifieth.(You will die, all of you! If you wait, hiding behind they who stand as stone before the storm, then they will die. And you would follow them into darkness.)"

No one moved. The air was supernaturally still, and nothing stirred within the branches of the iolar trees.

"illMureead koem feon Aual. Pal am? uel koruan. uel koruan gona Iyanden kionash, lan Asuryan sol koem uom iEsik-kuron. uel koruan gona iavten'menesh, furtestera'esh, joisa'esh aill'Mironin till, tomam iem quaan eana an furta tageth ucan (Tyranids are standing above you. Why? They wait. They wait until Iyanden Craftworld, light of Asuryan, stands alone before the Devourer. They wait until all strength, all hope and all possibility of preservation is slain, when our will gives out and the future falls away.)."

The assembly looked stunned, and brow beaten. In less than a minute Irilith had peeled back the lies that shored up the walls of their courage, and exposed the pseudo-cowardice for what it was. To do nothing, to wait for their Eldarkin, or, worse, for human warfleets... those were paths to oblivion.

Irilith now turned her keen intelligence to the second age-old weakness of the Eldar race. Pride.

"aillEsteram Aual koem na ainaarin cresistaueadar koem sol ishIllMuread am? Aarthia gonaEsh amure Eldar am? Ainaarin uelOa far kion raiph iavten'men iem aika seachmall am?(Would you stand by and let humans stand alone against the Devourer? Showing for all time the decline of the Eldar? Let them see with inaction that the strength we profess is an illusion?)"

Anger was stirring in the mob, but anger that would not, could not be directed against her. Tareleyan marvelled as she crafted her words, words that he knew, even then, would resound in his mind for centuries.

"They are children, kindred. Children before us. But they are countless, and their weapons terrible. They will fight the Devourer, and if they fall, so to do we. If they prevail, they will turn to us in rage at not shouldering our share of the burden of war. If we show weakness, if we do not stand, they will smite us down in turn."

Fear, pride, contempt and frustration warred within the minds of Iyanden. The Devourer of worlds had bludgeoned its way through the Imperium's eastern defences, and the mon'keigh were struggling to regroup for counter-offensive. So slow to act, but the force of an Imperial offensive was unique in the galaxy. Relentless, implacable. You could see it coming long before it struck, could smell it, could feel the calm that seemed to be the eerie herald of the coming storm. But when it came it was unstoppable. One simply heeded the warning signs, and cleared the area.

If the craftworld was to wait for the mon'keigh, they would be doomed. It could be a full generation of Eldar before the Imperium made good its promise to assist. A generation that would never come to pass, if the Devourer was to make its move.

"But we are strong still. Are we not the Eldar? Masters of the stars by the power of our will, by the potency of our fleets and by the superiority that was once ours by right. Let us seize the reins of that power, and show the galaxy that the Eldar have strength still."

There was no cheering. The situation was too sombre. Death was too close. But not here. There was strength yet amongst the Eldar. Strength of mind. Strength of purpose. And they would endure.

-_Flash- _

Iyanden did endure. The second most potent of Hive Fleet Kraken's tendrils was turned aside.

But Iyanden lost 80 of its total population. Its delicate wraithbone spires were left smouldering, acid-eaten ruins. The carefully tended domes were charnel houses. The infinity circuit, the last resting place of the Eldar, was the sole remaining bastion of power in what had been the largest of the Eldar craftworlds. Untold numbers of spirits had moved and fought as Wraithguard and Wraithlords. A horrific blow to the dwindling Eldar race. A horrific blow from which they may never recover.

But there was, still, strength left among the Eldar. They struck not for the now, or for the tomorrow, but for that which may come to pass years, decades or centuries ahead.

Eldar forces would strike hard, fast and without warning, laying waste to their target then vanishing...

Random acts of capricious brutality to the Imperium. But carefully, painstakingly orchestrated and intricately calculated acts of surgical precision.

The Imperium could not know that the unprovoked attack on an Imperial garrison on the minor planet of Yeftecka V would prevent a revolt of 80 percent Imperial military forces throughout the Segmentum Tempestus under Fleet Admiral Sven Jacobsen. Why? Because Fleet Admiral Jacobsen's father was killed in that raid, long before he was to have conceived the son who would shatter the Imperium in the bloodiest conflict since the Horus Heresy.

Nor would it, could it, know that the four Eldar warships that ambushed and destroyed the _Gothic-_class cruiser _Majestic_ were responsible for saving the Imperium from a plague that would have rendered two thirds of the senior naval officers of Battlefleet Obscuras incapable of duty during the 13th Black Crusade.

The Eldar were neither capricious, nor vindictive, nor random. Far from it. But the humans were still far too primitive to possibly conceptualise the ramifications of their actions across four dimensions with any degree of clarity.

So the Eldar would do it for them, with or without their consent.

But one slip, one mistep, one attack too many, or in too sensitive an area, and the weight of Imperial wrath would fall upon the Craftworlds, and the conflagration would doom both species to oblivion.

Here in the galactic east, the Eldar were far more likely to be heard as the allies they sought to be. The spectre of the Tyranids was great, and the Imperium was not blind to the assistance that the Eldar were providing. In the east, the Eldar could tell many Imperial commanders of the effects that decisions would have upon future events, and most would at least take those statements into account.

But of course, having Imperial authorities willing to listen to the emissaries of the craftworlds was the product of many years of Eldar action to just that end.

He didn't have to state his orders to his CaTuisich (First Officer), although he could have. An Eldar crew member is able to bond to a warship's Wraithbone core to gain control over it that is simply not possible using normal controls. In such a way, utilising their psi-conductive technology, Eldar vessels are able to have far smaller crew numbers than equivalently sized vessels among other races. Unlike their Human counterparts, they do not have specific functions. Each crewmember is equipped with a headband in which is set a fragment of the carrec'enad (soul-stone); by means of this they merge their minds with the ship's Infinity Circuit, forming a composite mind capable of handling multiple thoughts and actions. This mind is linked to the ship's mechanical systems by Mind Impulse Units that are far in advance of those used by the Imperium.

In this case, Farseer Tareleyan was not a crew member. But as a Farseer, he didn't have to be.A mental command sent the otIarstill gliding through space on the solar winds, daetrin cloak suppressing all electro-magnetic radiation rendering it near invisible to the naked eye. That was as per most holofield-based technologies, but the daetrin cloak also made it invisible to the battery of active and passive systems that the biofleets were known to use.The Battle of Iyanden had given the Eldar an insight into large-scale tyranid operations that few had managed, and the unusual fact that the target world had survived had generated an even greater wealth of information. Information that the Eldar were more than willing to analyse and put into practice.

The _otIarstill_'s tasking was simple, but absolutely crucial. The last engagement fought by the Eldar here was before Iyanden writhed in agony under the Devourer's onslaught. The constant fighting that had raged across the planet's surface, and in the space around it, had completely destroyed the once extensive network of webway gates and portals.

The _otIarstill _was carrying a starship-class webway gate (QuasDeash), and would deploy it just outside the planet's gravity-well. The ship would then transmit its success, and three of the five warfleets of the Halle'Iesu craftworld would materialise adjacent to Ichar IV, along with whatever combat fleet elements other craftworlds could despatch. Eldar units would launch for the surface, and establish webway connections to the surface of the Imperial world.

Warhosts from nearly a dozen craftworlds would lend assistance to Imperial forces, in particular to the attempt by the two marine chapters present to destroy the Norn Queen that was even now on the surface of the planet. Even the notoriously Eldar-supremacist Biel-Tan Craftworld had pledged its swordwind. High Farseer Hry'thar of Saim-Hann himself lead a sizeable contingent from his craftworld, and even now waited aboard the _Void Stalker_-class battleship _Sha'eil-till _(Hellslayer).

Targets had already been selected for the aspect warrior detachments, fire prisms, guardian battalions and phantom titans that would exit the webway portals. The runes had been specific enough for that.

They had also been specific about the fact that there was virtually no chance of the _otIarstill_ passing undetected through the Hivefleet's lines. And virtually no chance of passing through the lines once detected. And literally no chance of fighting off the Hive Fleet on its own.

Debate on this point had been fierce amongst Halle'Iesu's Seer Council. But there appeared no other way. The more ships sent, the more chance that the Tyranids would detect one of them, and then know that Eldar were operating in the area. And the combined strength of all of the Craftworld's ships would not break the Hive Fleet. The Hive Fleet would, however, manage to break the Eldar just fine...

No, the only way to proceed was like this. But that wasn't why Tareleyan was proceeding along this course. He was proceeding because he felt compelled to. An unfamiliar sensation. A disturbing sensation, and one that all his training and prior inclination told him to ignore.

But he didn't want to, this time.

Existence itself hung by a thread, and he was gambling the fabric of reality on a hunch.

Perhaps the most powerful battleforce the Eldar had assembled in millennia were staking their lives and souls on that same hunch.

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Brother-Centurion Kedron was beyond exhausted. Neither he nor his cohort (he still had troubles thinking of them as such) were in any way combat ready.

But they could pull the triggers on their bolters, and that would do. The Imperium had need of every scrap of firepower at this point, and every scrap included them.

Unfortunately, that meant that Kedron hadn't even had time to get his arm replaced.

So he fought with his plasma pistol. Just his plasma pistol.

His accuracy had always been good, but was becoming even better, in the short time that the fighting had been going on, which was not unreasonable given the difficulties inherent in only having one hand...

The 27 marines that made the 5th Cohort were going nowhere. They had penetrated a scant fifty metres into the Norn Queens body, and bogged down. Waves of Tyranids hurled themselves at the three squads worth of marines. Flamers held side tunnels, forcing the tyranids to engage from one direction. Concentrated bolter fire, both calibres, raked over the single direction in which the tyranid forces could advance.

Again the passageway was cleared, its walls leaking fluid from a hundred different bolter holes.

'This can't go on.' Kedron thought. 'Emperor-be-praised, none have fallen, but the ammunition cannot hold out forever.'

He fired off two more shots into the gloom, and was rewarded with the sound of a muffled scream.

Something had to change. And change quickly.

His comm-link activated, the voice of one of the thunderhawk pilots coming over. Calm, but with an undercurrent of tension.

"Strike Lead, this is Herald Lead. Be advised that the LZ is now hot. I say again, LZ is now hot, over."

There was silence over the comm. The landing zone was under attack. Dreadnoughts would hold it for as long as they could. Which wouldn't be all that long, really. The Thunderhawks on the ground would fire in defence, and those in the air would provide targetting telemetry.

All bad.

If the position was over-run, there would be no exfiltration. This would become a suicide mission. Three entire companies would be lost to the two chapters, regardless of the success of the operation. A worthwhile sacrifice, but, generally speaking, members of both chapters preferred not to die, if it could be avoided. While they did, without exception, look forward to the eternal rest and salvation promised by their faith in the immortal Emperor, they also took immense satisfaction in doing His work in defence of that which was His.

Which meant staying alive, where possible.

No voice had gone over the comm-link in response to Herald Lead's call, and right on cue, the comm activated again.

"Strike Lead, this is Herald Lead, I say again, the..."

Revinius' voice came strong over the comm-link.

"Acknowledged, Herald Lead. We heard you the first time. Out."

Kedron was a little shocked. Revinius had only once been short, only once in centuries, and that had been less than ten hours ago, on board the _Gladius_. The man was feeling the pinch.

Bolters blazed behind him, and more Tyranids died to his front as the shells flew past him.

'No'. He thought. 'This ends here. I will use my own body as the battering ram... but we must move.'

"Brother-Optio Gaius, you and your squad to me. Brother-Optio Pontius, guard our rear, but stay in contact. With me brothers, we press forward."

The Dark Templar 5th Cohort began to move again, Kedron and the eight brothers of first squad pushing the tyranids back along the corridors towards the psi-resonator chamber by concentration of fire.

Fire that wouldn't last. But as long as it got them to the psi-resonator chamber, it would be enough.

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Lines of probability slid through the Farseer's mind. Each was examined and discarded as the situation changed, the sleek Eldar ship slicing through space towards the tortured planet.

Orders slid from Tareleyan's mind to the crew of the _otIarstill_ even as the threads of the future were analysed as they changed before his mindsight.

"_Come right 15 degrees, and down 12 degrees. Roll left 25 degrees."_

The ship moved with an effortless grace that belied its size. Tareleyan knew that any other manoeuvre would have triggered an explosion. He didn't know exactly why, as he wasn't, nor ever had been, on the Path of the Mariner.

But the reason was that the area of space was littered with spore mines.

The Eldar cruiser had just pirouetted in space, and slid through a gap in the mine clusters, a gap that by all rights shouldn't have been wide enough for the streamlined warship to pass.

Tareleyan would have been sweating. His mind raced along the probability lines, tracing the results of each and every order that he could project to the gestalt consciousness that was the _otIarstill_.

There.

"_Up 24 degrees, roll right, 13 degrees and come left 8 degrees."_

A flight of tyranid drone-ships sailed through the space where the _otIarstill_ would have been, had the order not been given.

And another thread, urgent this time. A Hive Ship going to come around the planet within minutes.

"_Cut power from sails. Transfer all available power to the daetrin cloak."_

The ship's solar sails gave a very low energy output... but the energy flow could distort the read outs from the daetrin cloak.

The monstrosity came around the arc of the planet, looking strangely graceful, silhouetted against the glow of the sun through the planet's ionosphere.

The fate lines bent. Options began to decline. Something I've missed. What was it? Energy readings below detection threshold. Negligible thermal differential. What was it? What was going to cause it? What was...

They had silhouetted themselves against the moon behind them. Tareleyan almost smacked himself for being so stupid. The bloody things could see him. SEE him.

A rookie mistake, and one that would cost the Eldar, and possibly the galaxy, very dearly.

"_Disengage cloak. Arm primary array."_

Tareleyan could feel the ship's discontent. The minds that worked together as the ship's consciousness knew that such action, regardless of its success, would doom the ship.

Synapses fired and thoughts flew, from the ship to the minds of its crew to the Farseer and back, a blur of thought, far faster than any human mind could process.

"_?Solutions?Options?Alternatives?"_

"_None."_

"_?Query?Clarification?Confusion?"_

The Eldar ship-consciousness was confusing to converse with. Sentient without a doubt, but there were echoes in the background. A disturbing quality, the echoes giving mind-voice to concepts not quite the same, though similar and often equally important. Parallel lines of reasoning, expressed simultaneously, in a way that a true single-mind could not replicate.

"_Time. Mission importance. Dispersal of Hive fleet units. Planet's gravitywell._ _Absence of assistance from Eldarkin."_

"_?Absence query?Assistance clarification?Importance statement!Situation analysis.Options analysis."_

The _otIarstill _had concieved of something that he had not. But had not yet informed him. A rare affirmation of the ships confidence in him, despite the fact that it queried him.

Heart warming at another time. Now it was time wasting.

"_Time critical. Detection imminent. Defensive measures required."_

"_!Eath, Idiann! (No, Farseer)"_

A rare moment of total unity. A hundred minds spoke their disagreement to him, out of synch but in perfect harmony. Crucial milliseconds passed while Tareleyan recovered from the shock.

"_Propose option, otIarstill."_

The Farseer should have seen the option. That he hadn't was damning. Perhaps in more ways than one.

The fact that the _otIarstill_ had was more than slightly surprising. The collective consciousnesses were rarely capable of that degree of independent forethought.

"_?Idiann queried, reference viability?Appropriate to objectives?Risk involved?"_

Tarelyan frowned. How could he answer the gestalt if he didn't know what it was proposing... and the Hive ship was approaching detection range. Less than 35 seconds.

"_?Cresistauread?Mon'Keigh?Imperials?Humans?Losseainn?Space Marine ships?Strike Cruisers?Transports deployed.Query purpose?Present alternative?"_

Tareleyan smiled a rueful half-smile. Of course. Always the uncertain element.

"_Target Hive ship, disengage daetrin cloak, lock-on all forward weapons systems and fire. Signal the strike cruisers. We bring the swordwind to Ichar IV. With their help, it shall arrive it time to turn this war against the Devourer."_

Everything happened as the Farseer's mind 'voiced' it. The neuro-psychic reaction times possessed by an Eldar warship were so far ahead of the Imperial equivalent that is was breathtaking. The control process was more akin to vocalising your own movements.

The _otIarstill_'s outline blurred, and it shimmered into existence, a microsecond before its over-powered forward armament, including four pulsar lances, opened fire on the Hive ship.

Space between the two vessels came alive, as flickering lightning sailed across the void. Colours sparkled around the hive ship as the spore mines surrounding it exploded to the fire of the weapons batteries.

Right on time for the pulsar lances to punch through the opening.

Great rents appeared in the Hive ship's hull-flesh. Lubrication-ichor and control-fluid leaked into space alongside purple liquid and cartilaginous superstructure.

The creature's psychic death throes hurt Tareleyan's mind, the powerful creature's anguish blazing through the immaterium.

The _otIarstill_'s archaic communications system, expressly for the purpose of dealing with non-Eldar, transmitted its signal to the Space Marine strike cruisers at the edge of the system, just as those two Imperial vessels registered the fiery, explosive destruction of the Hive Ship.

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Aboard the _Leonidas_, too much was happening at once for the crew and captain to process properly. But process they did, and respond, they did. A tribute to Bondsman-Captain Phillips' skill.

Bondsman-Lieutenant Fitzpatrick, on shift at sensors, was first to start the commontion, but the difference was so thin that it would take a computer to tell them apart.

"Sir, multiple expolosive transients, bearing..."

Bondsman-Sublieutenant Kirkshaw, tactical...

"Sir, high-energy signature, class-unknown, near the second moon..."

Communications, Bondsman-Lieutenant Commander McReedy.

"Recieving non-Imperial communications, sir, analysis indicates..."

Bondsman-Captain Phillips couldn't hear himself think, over the commotion so he didn't bother. He counted mentally to ten, by which time silence reigned once more, waiting for his response.

"One at a time please, gentlemen. I can't make a decision if you all yell at me at once."

Brief, tittering laughter dispelled the sombre mood that had prevailed.

Phillips continued.

"Tactical?"

"Sir, readouts indicate appearance of a sudden high-energy ship signature, class unknown, near the second moon. Contact is extremely sporadic, and difficult to maintain, sir."

"Very good. Sensors?"

"Multiple explosive transients, bearing 340 mark 21. Readings consistent with spore mine field breach and hive ship decompression."

"Comms?"

"Sir, we are being hailed on non-Imperial frequencies, audio only."

"Very well. Let's hear it."

In his many years of commanding Lycurgan warships, Phillips had fought Orks beyond counting. Had battled in Imperial fleets against renegades without number, heretic and otherwise (Imperial dogma about non-Imperial humans aside). Had watched fleets crumble under tyranid onslaught on two occasions. Had squared off against the Inquisition during the Nadgazad Confrontation.

But never in all his life had his spine tingled the way it did when the Eldar ship spoke, its voice resonant, almost musical, and not .

"_Space Marine vessels, this is the Eldar Shadow-class warship _otIarstill_ of the Halle'Iesu Craftworld. We are here to render assistance to your world. In order to do so, we request that you render assistance to us in the completion of our mission_."

A dozen pair of eyes watched the Bondsman-Captain as he pondered the question.

_What's the catch?_ he thought to himself.

The Eldar may have been a declining race... but the warships they operated were far from reflective of that. That _Shadow_-class ship was the equal of any Imperial cruiser, and better than most.

But that voice. That voice was utterly inhuman. Fathomless in its complexity, possessed of complete confidence and yet somehow without a hint of condescencion. Rarely had Phillips felt more ill at ease than he did right then, as an Eldar composite-mind spoke to the bridge of his ship.

He'd have wagered a year's credit that the Eldar ship had sent exactly the same message to the _Triarius_. And Phillips was fairly sure that he knew how the Dark Templar strike cruiser would respond.

_The Eldar were here to help? Thank the Emperor. Why? What concern is this of theirs?_

He knew the answer before he'd finished. The Eldar knew that they could not defeat the Tyranids alone. Knew that they needed mankind, with all the strength of the Imperium, if they were to endure.

Knew that for mankind to endure, Ichar IV must not fall to the Hive Fleets.

Phillips knew of Eldar machinations. Knew that their fickle, random nature was not. Knew that there was some form of method to their madness. Knew from accounts of battles on Cadia, Tallarn, Armaggedon and during the Gothic War. Knew that for all their unpredictability, the Eldar had been far more help to the Imperium than they had been hindrance, especially out here in the galactic east.

And knew that there were more than two companies of marines on that planet that were relying on them to make the right decisions, and to follow their commander's intent.

That being, of course, to maintain the Imperial control and use of Ichar IV.

"Eldar vessel, this is Bondsman-Captain Phillips of the strike cruiser _Leonidas_, of the 892nd Chapter of Adeptus Astartes. State your mission, and we will examine for compatibility with our own."

"_Standby."_

Phillips didn't wait. The Eldar ship could make its case. Unless it sought the overthrow of the Emperor from the Golden Throne, the _Leonidas _would assist.

"Mister McReedy, hail the _Triarius._"

"On screen, sir."

The image of the _Triarius_' captain was striking. The Dark Templars had always had a flair for the dramatic, and the view behind the other strike cruiser's captain was certainly that, with the enormous white-on-green templar cross banners hanging vertically behind him, ornate statues of Dark Templar heroes below them.

The _Triarius_' captain was no fool. He'd know exactly why Phillips was contacting him.

The man spoke with typical Dark Templar directness.

"The Eldar contact you as well?"

"They did."

"They want help?"

"They do."

The two men regarded each other. Phillips had never spoken to the captain of the _Triarius _before. Didn't even know his name, although it wouldn't be hard to find out.

But the marines that they both served under were brothers to each other in more than name, and their chapters were steadfast allies. The _Triarius' _captain spoke next.

"We have a fairly good idea what they want, don't we?"

"We do. They'll want an escort, so they can... do some Eldar thing."

"And we will give it to them?"

Phillips nodded.

"Unless you have a firm objection. I'm sure they have some manipulative Eldar scheme... but at the moment their scheming is toward the same end as our fighting... I say we help."

The man nodded, his head looking a trifle small in comparison to his massive frame. Phillips spoke out next, voicing a query.

"Agreed. Do you want to speak for us, or shall I?"

"You can. Your guns are bigger than ours."

Phillips chuckled. The _Leonidas_ did have a dorsal lance array more than the _Triarius_, and was a little faster... but it was hardly something to astropath haven about.

"In which case, patch comm systems through the _Leonidas_, and I will answer when they respond."

"Can do. _Triarius _out."

The welcoming, if a little ornate bridge of the Dark Templar warship was replaced by the twinkling lights of the starfield and the bulk of one of the gas giants near the outer edge of the Ichar system.

The bridge waited for Phillips' next orders. Even he wasn't quite sure how he'd go about this. Or whether Brother-Captain Lysander would have him shot for assisting xenos without orders. Phillips wouldn't have blamed him, all things considered. The weight of precedent was definitely against Phillips in this light. Even talking to xenos could get a warship's captain executed in some areas of the Imperium.

It was all pretty academic. If this attempt to pull off the strategic raid of the millennium didn't work, then everyone would be dead sooner or later anyway, so it wouldn't matter.

Not that Phillips _wanted_ to be interrogated by the Inquisition. Really, he didn't. He guessed that that would be a rather unpleasant experience.

However, he'd rather be alive to face the Inquisition, than follow the rest of the galaxy into death.

He wasn't sure, but maybe he was just weird that way.

His musings were interrupted by McReedy.

"Sir, the Eldar ship is hailing, still audio only."

"Ok, Mister McReedy. Lets hear them."

The sound of the Eldar ship was once again strangely haunting. That didn't detract from the import of what it was saying, however.

"_Farseer Tareleyan of Halle'Iesu leads a task force to combat the Tyranids in this sector. However, due to extensive Tyranid presence, and the intensity of the fighting on the surface, there remain no waygates on the planet, or in orbit, which we can use to bring in the forces that we have prepared. For this reason, this ship is carrying a warp portal. We seek an escort, and covering fire, to enable us to avoid the Hive Fleet, and deploy the warp portal in such a way as to allow subsequent waves to avoid being engaged by the Hive Fleet. Farseer Tareleyan has determined that if the Imperium loses control of this sector, then far more Eldar lives will be lost than those that might otherwise fall defending it. Does this mission meet with your approval, Bondsman-Captain?"_

The atmosphere onboard the _Leonidas_ was hushed. So much was riding on them that they had almost become desensitised to it. But not entirely. The fate of uncountable trillions of people never entirely became routine.

Phillips couldn't respond immediately. The illusion of due thought had to be maintained. Not just for the benefit of his crew, but for his soon-to-be allies, who he would have to feel gave his words at least a modicum of thought, before they speared off and did whatever they wanted to, the way Eldar always did.

The pause became protracted, with Phillips gambling that there was no immediate time pressure...

'Oh no!' he thought.

Those energy surges. Explosive transients. Comm signal NOW of all times.

The Eldar were already engaged.

This was the closest that the Eldar would give to a distress signal. They were in trouble.

"Eldar vessel, we accept your proposal. Come about to 168 Mark 6, and come to us. We'll accelerate towards you, and come in on either side."

"_otIarstill acknowledges. Changing course to given vector. Heading towards you at best speed."_

Phillips watched the readings, and sucked in a breath. They weren't kidding.

Bondsman-Sublieutenant Kirkshaw spoke into the silence.

"Sir, the Eldar ship is turning along indicated lines, and accelerating. Still accelerating. Still accelerating. Sir, its..."

"Steady, Mr Kirkshaw. That's an Eldar warship, and, more importantly, it's the ship that a craftworld has chosen should be the one to carry at least one very important person. I doubt that's the last surprise that ship will throw our way."

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The _otIarstill_ had not been enjoying the discussion time. The clean, smooth lines of the vessel's wraithbone hull had been scored and cracked in a dozen places before the conversation was over, with the Eldar ship ducking, weaving and sliding through space in an attempt to avoid the Hive Fleet that was massing around it.

A clockwise barrel-roll threw a pair of hive ships off the _otIarstill_'s tail, but looked decidedly incongruous on the cruiser-sized warship.

Watching the _otIarstill _in combat was almost like watching a giant fighter aircraft pitch and roll. The handling was so far in advance of conventional warships that it was difficult to quantify the increase in performance.

Conversely, the lack of ability to withstand damage was telling.

The gestalt mind was reeling. Several of the crew that made its "body" were dead, or seriously injured, and it was becoming increasingly hard to focus.

A drone ship came in from starboard, pyro-acid batteries blazing. All the shots went high, and the _otIarstill_ fired back, prow pulsar speaking once, then twice, shots ripping through the drone ship's hull with near contemptuous ease.

A second, third and fourth drifted into the _otIarstill_'s path, pyro-acid batteries hurling destruction through the void toward the Eldar vessel.

Tareleyan was dimly aware of something fracturing, and something exploding. Never before had he been more earnestly hoping for the mon'keigh to come through.

The two strike cruisers at the edge of the system were all that stood between the Eldar and destruction... and consequently between the Imperium and the Devourer.

"Eldar vessel, we accept your proposal. Come about to 168 Mark 6, and come to us. We'll accelerate towards you, and come in on either side."

The release of tension aboard the _otIarstill_ was palpable. While the situation was far from resolved, a means of securing the objective had now been realised.

Tareleyan mentally nudged the ship, which had had the entirety of its formidable collective mind focused on attempting to avoid incoming fire.

"_otIarstill acknowledges. Changing course to given vector. Heading towards you at best speed."_

The ship shuddered as another blast scored a hit, despite the still functional holofield. Nothing else seemed to be damaged this time, and the armour held.

Tareleyan altered his mental focus to the two marine warships. Strike cruisers, which meant light, well armed, and fast.

Perhaps fast enough to pull the _otIarstill_ out of the mess it was in at that particular moment.

The Eldar ship slid through space, every fibre of the ship straining for maximum speed.

The vector that the marine commander had given the _otIarstill_ was simple. Straight towards the marines, headed away from the star.

Fortunately for the _otIarstill, _it was in that direction that the Eldar ship could reach its maximum sublight speed, headed straight out on the solar winds.

It could not hope to hold back the hordes of the Devourer. But it could fire fast enough, and accurately enough, to make a plausible attempt to carve its way out.

Two more drones died under its guns as it desperately raced to slide out from the net.

Two more drones, one getting off a shot before the pulsar lances cut it in two.

And yet more.

The _otIarstill_ was being over run. Despite its speed, its rate of advance was known, and the system was rapidly flooding with tyranids. More and more tyranid ships were being vectored into the damaged Eldar cruiser's path, the jaws closing on a trap that none save the Devourer could execute with such effortless precision.

"Shenestra! (Damnation!)"

Tareleyan swore, and slammed his delicate hand into a blank pat of the console in front of him. If he hadn't known better, he'd almost have thought that the space on the console was provided for just that contingency.

A quartet of Hive ships were closing on four different vectors. The _otIarstill _was fast running out of options.

A bio-plasma salvo flew across the Eldar ship's path, and it veered hard-a-port, cutting in front of the ship that just fired, blazing back with weapons batteries and pulsars, a stitched line of multi-coloured explosions changing as its spore-shields gave out.

The monstrosity's frustrated psychic screech made every psyker across a dozen sectors wince.

The _otIarstill_ swung back to starboard, rolling right and pitching down as it did so, while the wounded Hive ship struggled to turn to halt its momentum and turn.

But the Eldar ship was out of its reach, and its pursuit trailed.

Not so the rest of the Hive, which was closing around the sleek ship quickly. The _otIarstill_'s jink may have kept it safe from the four mass-superior vessels that were closing on it, but the delay had allowed the fleet to press closer.

A dozen ships at the outside of their firing envelopes. At least two dozen more pressing from multiple directions. So many drone-ships that they were almost literally beyond counting. Far too many ships. Pouring, flooding, streaming into the system. Probably the sector.

And Tareleyan had miscalculated. The fate of his entire race, and countless others (not that he really cared all that much about them) rode on success here. And he had failed. The _otIarstill_, despite his and its best efforts, was being slowly pulled apart by the swarm.

As if to punctuate the point, the ship rocked again, an unknown Tyranid bio-weapon scoring another hit. Wraithbone held against the strain, the finely crafted lines still unbending amidst the storm.

A stream of azure particles flew across the _otIarstill_'s path, narrowly missing it.

But cleanly striking the nearest of the Hive Ships, blasting straight through its shields and into its chitinous armour.

Purple lubricating ichor and chunks of flesh spewed out into space.

"Eldar vessel, this is the _Leonidas_. Come about to new heading, 341 Mark 2, in eight, seven, six..."

The _otIarstill_ barely had time to process the transmission while the countdown was approaching zero. Power was shunted from the weapons to the solar sails, as the ship prepared to turn hard-a-starboard its course.

"...ree, two, one, TURN."

The Eldar ship spun about, inertial dampeners straining to prevent the ship's occupants from smearing themselves against whatever they were sitting on or next to.

The space where they were headed came alive as the two strike cruisers let a rip with all available weaponry. The _otIarstill_, spinning around as it did, brought its own considerable prow armament to bear, and, for a moment at least, a storm of fire sang through the void. Violet pulsars and lightning blue lances flew alongside waves of missiles and cannonfire into the oncoming horde. For a moment, it seemed that it would not be enough.

But sudden weight of firepower began to tell, and two of the four hive ships at the Devourer's vanguard crumpled and died. Droneships kept coming, but the four remaining larger bioships peeled off.

Not beaten. No one aboard either of the three warships was fool enough to think them beaten. But they Hive could see the difficulties inherent in pushing directly into the firepower ahead of it with the resources it had right there. Tyranid bio-ships were perhaps the only organisms that the Hive mind strove to protect, where possible. Not that it would hesitate to use them, or risk them, but it would not throw them away as it would so many of its other creations. No. Actions by the Hive fleets were far more measured.

They had survived, Tareleyan breathed. For now anyway, death had not claimed them. She-who-thirsts would not take him just yet.

But illMureead, the Devourer, was still out there. Time was of the essence.

Again. It was so tiresome. He was more than six hundred years old, and yet he always seemed to be short on time.

He altered his mental focus, and addressed the _otIarstill_'s gestalt consciousness.

"_otIarstill, iam aillEstera taluclu cresistauead ardIonann. Belac bionnearan. Belah na cheapmai rega. (otIarstill, I would like to meet the human battle commander. The way is concealed. Path, and plan, distorts...)"_

"_?Confirmation?Clarification?Mode of address?"_

"_Audio only. I wish them to see me in the flesh, before they see my visage on their viewscreens."_

"_!Acknowledged!Complying!"_

There was a pause, a blissful, silent, unblemished pause, as the _otIarstill_'s systems interrogated the communications system on the two Imperial ships.

"_.Sound-Link established."_

Tareleyan began to speak, throat protesting at the guttural human language sounds that Tareleyan was forcing it to make.

"Imperial vessels, I am Farseer Tareleyan of the Halle Iesu Craftworld. On behalf of myself, this crew and my craftworld, I thank you for the assistance you have here granted us."

The human that responded sounded more than a little relieved himself. If he had known how much was at stake, he'd have been yet more.

"Farseer Tareleyan, this is Bondsman-Captain Phillips of the _Leonidas._ What do you propose from here? The Tyranids are now aware of our presence. We won't hold them for long, once they have regrouped."

Tareleyan was deep in thought, only the merest fraction of his consciousness holding conversation with the human captain. The rest of his mind scoured the lines and weaves of fate, searching, probing for a course of action with the faintest chance of success. The _otIarstill_ had taken moderate damage, enough so the ship could no longer cloak. That option was out. The tyranids knew that there were Eldar in the area. Surprise of that nature was out. How in Isha's name could they advance their cause? Why was such a crucial world to the humans defended by so small...

That's it. The line of fate that represented the mon'keigh. The thread that was often largest, boldest, brightest and least predictable. The mon'keigh held so much power... but had so little idea how to use it that it drove the Seer Councils of the Craftworlds to distraction.

The mon'keigh were being unusually subtle. They had a fleet here. Not _here_, here, but here, in theatre, within an hour or two of warp travel.

They were... waiting. For... something. Something that the runes weren't clear about. Waiting for some form of signal, to come forward. Why weren't they defending Ichar? Why was such a powerful fleet just... sitting there?

They were insufficient. They were inferior to the Hive Fleet, and they knew it. They would most certainly give the tyranids a bloody nose, but wouldn't break it, and would squander their own lives and resources in the process.

The mon'keigh were learning. All too often they had stood and died, when retreating and regrouping were wiser. So many of them died. So many, and so childlike.

Tareleyan pondered the analogy. Indeed, children, they were. Short-lived, clumsy, inelegant, unrefined children. But they were so brave. So vibrant. To confront the galaxy with so little, in knowledge and in technology...

And then to defeat it! To subdue the galaxy as the Eldar had... with a fraction of the technology and an inferior physique, to say nothing of minds with only the slightest hint of an Eldar's power... truly, the humans were a remarkable species.

And so prolific. Blanketing the stars in scant millennia. A millennium could have two hundred Eldar become eight hundred, three generations of Eldar, born and birthing. That same millennium could see two hundred humans become 985 trillion.

Without the humans, the Devourer of Worlds would sweep the Eldar from the galaxy without the slightest hassle at all. The Eldar, the Orks, the Tau (and their allies, the Kroot and Vespids), the servants of the Great Enemy... all life, in fact. All life hinged on humanity, on the force that the Imperium could bring to bear, on the weight of men and materiel that would come crashing down on those who would fight mankind.

A terrible thing for the ever-proud Eldar to admit, and one that many of Tareleyan's seer kin still would not.

The days of the Eldar Empire were over. They were over and, despite what the war-mongers of Biel-Tan thought, they would not come again. The humans were too many to be conquered by the Eldar, and that way lay only destruction and damnation.

The only chance for the Eldar to endure would be alongside humans. As guides and allies, where possible. Enemies where action required. But alongside them. Eventually, perhaps, as part of human society, in the distant future when they spoke and acted as more than the children they now were.

A part of human society that, Tareleyan was confidant, would come to lead it, over time. That was the only way the Eldar could once more rule.

Humanity must not fall. Whatever else, whatever the cost, mankind must endure, or all was lost.

Bondsman-Captain Phillips was still waiting for him to reply. It had been nearly a minute. The man had been exceptionally patient, for a human.

"We must bring your fleet, Bondsman-Captain. Bring them in-system, and return to Ichar itself with them at our backs. Only then will we have the diversion required to deploy the warp gate that will secure this system. Our combined fleets can then reap the harvest of bioships, while the Devourer reels in shock from the carnage wrought by your Space Marines' assault."

Phillips heard the words. Heard the weight of experience that came behind them. But he didn't want to.

Phillips was, of course, assuming that the Eldar was speaking the truth. An assumption, not necessarily a fact. Assumptions piling upon assumptions. But, nevertheless, it was an assumption that stood to reason.

Which was near heresy in itself. Reason was uncalled for. Reason belied faith, to the Imperium at large, if not to Deathbringers. Reason when dealing with xenos was dangerous. All the more so when weighty decisions were to be made, upon which relied human lives.

What could he do? Really. What could the two space marine strike cruisers do against the Hive Fleet? Even with the Eldar ship alongside them, they couldn't halt the Hive fleet for more than a token period of time. Even now, Ichar was being subsumed, the space around the planet infested with Tyranid organisms, its defences splintered and demoralised.

All of a sudden, the rationale behind the heretical status of reason became clear. Reason made for analysis. Analysis of the situation could only yield one result. Ichar would fall, and humanity with it. Analysis and reason would hold that all that could be done was to preserve what they had, to put as much space between the Devourer and themselves as was possible, and to hope that the shadow in the warp would not reach them in their lifetimes.

That was why the Imperium despised reason. Reason lead to fear, to madness and to cowardice. Encouraging reason amongst fallible men was akin to encouraging their cowardice and, in the process, generating a self-fulfilling prophecy of terror and doubt.

Faith. Faith was their greatest weapon. Faith and courage more than any amount of guns and ammunition. Faith kept the armies and fleets fighting, despite all hope. And in the process, created hope. Created possibilities for victory that base reason would not have. Made examples for men to follow and ideals to inspire.

That lead to victory. A dictatorship of reason would lead to death.

But reason could not be abandoned completely. To do that would be to presume the Emperor's favour, and that presumption would bring a destruction all its own.

So many choices, so many actions, could all lead to the cataclysmic end of everything.

Phillips' face did not give away just how shaken his own introspection was making him. He had always had complete and total confidence in the Imperium. Perhaps, he mused, that was itself inherited from the fact that most of his time in commanding Deathbringer warships was spent in close company to Deathbringer senior officers, and few individuals anywhere extrude confidence and competence like a space marine company commander, Deathbringer or no.

But now the call was his to make. It shouldn't be him making the call. It should be the space marine commander. He just commanded the ship.

Brother-Captain Lysander would want his input. To give that, Phillips' would need every scrap of information he could get his hands on.

"How long do you need to deploy the warp gate, Farseer?"

Tareleyan could hear the man's hesitation. It didn't take much knowledge of the Imperial mind to fathom the reasons for it.

"No more than ten minutes, at the outside, Bondsman-Captain. There are forty-five warships of light capital size or greater preparing to exit that warp gate and make their presence felt, both in space and on the surface. The longer we tarry, the more of your people will lose their lives, and the stronger the Devourer will become as a consequence."

Phillips' head cocked to one side, then looked at McReedy. When he caught his eye, he waved his hand across his own mouth in the time-honoured mute transmission gesture.

"McReedy, did you hear how many ships he just said?"

"He said forty-five, sir."

"Forty-five light cruisers or bigger, right?"

"That's how I understood it, sir."

"Emperor's teeth. That could change the course of the war. Forty-five! I didn't know that the Eldar had that many ships available in this sector."

Kirkshaw interjected.

"They probably don't, sir. I don't know anything about warp gates, but who knows how far away they could reach with their unholy xenotechnology."

Kirkshaw made the sign of the aquilae, and Phillips resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The Eldar were apparently willing to help. Forty-five light-capital-plus ships willing to help...

But they would have to get them into the system. Would have to convince the Imperial Fleet that the change of plans was worthwhile, and viable.

Would have to trust the Eldar. It wasn't just his tortuous death at the hands of the Inquisition if he were mistaken. Not that he hadn't pondered that earlier. So much else was...

Phillips stopped himself. Too much melodrama. He got it. Call the boss, right... He nodded to McReedy, who re-activated te comms to the Eldar.

"Stand-by, Farseer, will advise."

"Acknowledged, Bondsman-Captain. We await your decision. _OtIarstill_ out."

No sooner had the Farseer disconnected than Phillips was barking more orders.

"Tactical, divert power from weapons to short-range comms. Boost range all the way to Ichar itself. McReedy, establish comm-link with Brother-Captain Lysander. Relay via Herald Lead if required."

Kirkshaw at tactical began to respond, hands moving over the control panels with the skill and precision of a pianist.

"Aye, sir, diverting power to communications. Dorsal lances offline. Communications power at 150 percent."

McReedy answered him, reporting comms status.

"Range still insufficient. Estimate a further 75 basis points required."

Phillips nodded. There was a good chance they'd blow out the comms... but they needed that link, if only for a short time.

"Raise power output as far as required, Mr Kirkshaw."

"Taking power from engines, sir. Comms power still rising. 190 percent. 200. 210. 220... Diverting more engine power. Thrust down to 75 percent. Comms power passing 250. 260..."

"We have contact with Herald Lead, sir."

"Establish link."

A chime sounded from the comm-station.

"System link established, sir."

"Herald Lead, this is the _Leonidas_. Our situation has changed. Patch through to Lambda Lead, over."

The sound of static came back over the link, then Herald Lead's voice came across clear once more.

"Standby, _Leonidas._"

Nothing, then sound again. Specifically, the hollow sound of bolters firing in an enclosed space, as heard over a comm-net. Then the atmosphere on the bridge relaxed palpably as Lysander spoke.

"_Leonidas_, this is Lambda Lead. Go ahead."

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The battle the marines were fighting within the Norn Queen was rapidly going south. Not only had the Deathbringer 2nd Company become bogged down, having only reached one of its two objectives, but the Dark Templar 3rd was only just managing to hold onto its advance towards its objective.

De Laan was pinned in place at a four way junction, each of his squads holding one flank, while he and the detachment's sole assault squad held the centre as a reserve. They were firm in place, but stuck.

Revinius was still advancing, but the rate of advance had slowed to a crawl, and the marines were resorting to blocking corridors with piles of tyranid dead to prevent themselves from being overwhelmed. It would have stunk, and Revinius spared a thought to be grateful for the fact that his mind was focused on other, more pressing concerns.

The thought came just in time for a wave of nausea.

He had to think about the smell, didn't he? He was doing fine, thank you, but no. Just had to think about how good it was that he couldn't smell the corpses. Dang and blast.

The blue eldritch glow of his powersword was long gone under the layers of tyranid gunk.

About the only thing that wasn't gone was ammunition, of which there was still a precious little, and hope, of which there remained a modicum.

The Emperor was, after all, mercif...

Revinius was hurled to his right, as a section of the wall caved in, wave of tyranids behind it. He resisted the urge to rise as a genestealer leapt upon him, only for it (and a good number of its compatriots) to be torched by the wash of a flamer, three of the brother-legionnaires walking towards the breach, hosing the area down with promethium.

The brother-centurion rose as the three walked past, patting one on the shoulder with a clang, and taking stock of status. The schematics that had been tentatively provided by the databanks of the _Gladius_ seemed to indicate about fifty metres to go. However past the next corner, his reconnaissance had indicated a large opening, with many entrance points and broken ground, to say nothing of many nooks and crannies in which to hide tyranids intent upon causing mayhem within the Dark Templar ranks.Casualties were mounting as it was, but, more importantly, time was getting very short. They were already well over-time, and this was starting to look more and more like a one-way operation.

He looked left, in time to watch a dog-like creature scuttle across the wall, to meet a well-aimed bolter round.

The legionnaires of the 3rd were firing on semi-automatic, the precious bolter ammunition being used one shot at a time.

The result was that the surroundings were much quieter, and the loud, slightly echoing and distinctive 'bang-whoosh' bolter reports were often punctuated by high-pitched squealing of lesser tyranid species, audible in most cases, rather than drowned out in the bass thrum that normally accompanied the cohort's advance.

Lysander's voice came over the commlink.

"Brother-Centurion Revinius, what is your status?"

Revinius' head didn't shift from the most likely avenue of tyranid approach, eyes roving for telltales.

"Still advancing, Brother."

Revinius grinned ruefully at the pause. He could almost hear Lysander's mounting frustration at the other end of the comm.

The three marine commanders had operated in the way they had for good reason. The Deathbringer company had an inplace command structure that enabled quick and easy subdivision, and Brother-Lieutenant De Laan was well able to command the five squads assigned to him.

Dark Templar units always operated at cohort level, and their docttine was designed with that synergy in mind. Dark Templar cohorts were notoriously hard to budge, but were rarely broken up, where possible.

That left two Deathbringer units of fifty marines apiece, a single Dark Templar cohort of approximately one hundred, and a grotesquely understrength cohort of 27.

All four units had been tasked according to their relative strengths, with the single full-strength cohort supposed to push the furthest, to the neuro-synaptic relay at the far point of what was essentially an equilateral triangle.

But they were encountering more resistance than they expected. The Norn Queen, and swarm at large, were responding faster than all previous Imperial intelligence reports would have suggested. Although, admittedly, all prior attacks launched inside Norn Queens had been while the bio-ships were in pseudo-stasis from interstellar travel.

This one certainly wasn't in anything like stasis, not that they had really thought it would be.

Revinius spoke into the comms, infusing his voice with far more confidence than he felt.

"We will make our objective, Richard. You just hold yours, and make sure your whelp gets his."

Revinius couldn't hear Lysander chuckle, as the man hadn't activated his commlink. Nor had he seen De Laan scowl. But he could picture them both clearly, and the thought made him chuckle.

Right before another section of wall caved in, a Hive Tyrant bellowing as it ran at him...

The Brother-Centurion sighed, and raised his sword and shield again, as bolters fired past him into the throng.

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Kedron kept moving. He was exhausted, but if he faltered then the pitiful crawl that was an advance would stop entirely. He wished he had his arm again.

Brother-Optio Gaius was dead. The first to fall, after hurling himself in front of Kedron when a carnifex charged. Kedron had almost felt the sickening, nauseously wet sound of the monstrosity's tusks slicing through the plasteel of Gaius' armour and into his intestines with terrifying ease, hoisting the man upwards and shaking him until he came off, trailing bright red blood spray as he fell.

Even as the man lay dying from the massive internal haemorrhaging, he kept firing his bolt pistol, reloading it twice and pouring explosive bolts into the behemoth that had gored him.

He had died a hero, as much as any marine in combat could ask for. Save the manner of death. Gored by carnifex, not high on Kedron's to-do list. Kedron would personally have much rather been shot by a lascannon, if the choice had to be made.

Gaius had been a brother. In every way, save birth. And he would mourn him, as he would mourn all the brothers that he had lost these past days. All dead to the Devourer, but, thank the Emperor, their geneseed had been recovered.

Save those that might fall here.

There was a lull, and Kedron checked the temperature gauge on his plasma pistol. Hot, and nudging the 'danger' area. He almost laughed. 'Danger' was the weapon exploding, or not firing. Anything else, relatively speaking, was not danger at all.

Anger was building within Kedron, and he fought it down. Dark Templars, unlike many others who bore the "Templar" name, discouraged anger in combat. It clouded the mind. Prevented accurate judgements from being drawn. Could lead to recklessness, and a tendency to not consider the actions one implements.

But Kedron was most definitely feeling anger. A bright hot, yet perversely exquisitely cold fury that was starting to build in his belly as he took each shuffling step forward, endlessly treading on tyranid corpses that had fallen to the guns of the 5th Cohort.

He couldn't afford to look down at his footing. Couldn't take his eyes off the combat to his front. A moment's loss of concentration would either kill him, or kill one of his brothers.

More than that. He was the Brother-Centurion. A moment's loss of concentration and everyone dies. By extension, the galaxy as well, but he was trying not to dwell on that. He was a very recently promoted cohort commander. Galaxy-fate was very much a new thing to Kedron.

A termagant rose from a crevasse ahead, and Kedron snapped off a shot, plasma bolt disintegrating the creature's head and driving a furrow into the wall behind it. The corpse pitched forward with almost comical slowness.

The going was torturous. Painfully slow. Every metre fought over.

She knew what they were doing. Kedron was positive. The marine deployment was too specific to be anything else. And the Norn Queen was responding with characteristic blunt resolve.

Kedron would have bet credits that the bitch was having an ulcer though, and he took a feral glee in the thought.

We're not fast enough, Kedron realised in a moment of horror, stepping aside as another bolter-ridden creature sailed through the air, carried by its own momentum though dead before it hit the ground.

We aren't going to get there in time, if at all. One or all of the four marine groups was going to be overrun, and then the neuro-synaptic relays and psi-resonator would not be destroyed at the same time.

That was as good as outright failure. The tyranid backups would come on line too fast for anything but simultaneous destruction to sever the link. Backups would have be unable to re-establish it, but they could maintain it, if all the primary systems were not knocked out simultaneously.

They had failed.

His eyes grew dark and cloudy, his anger building at that which would destroy what humanity had taken 50,000 years to build.

They may destroy him, but he'd give them a fight they'd never forget. It would be a long time before this Norn Queen would forget, of that Kedron was sure.

Minutes passed in an angry blur, three termagants making it to close combat with him only to be shot at point blank range, pistol-whipped to death or kicked into a pulp.

Another sprang around a corner, as Kedron began moving faster, rage flowing red-hot through over-stressed veins.

Everything was moving in slow motion. The tyranids, masters of blur-fast close combat, looked like they were moving through mud.

The termagant was still in the air, moving ever so slowly forward.

Kedron swung his right leg up and, without warning, time snapped back into the proper pace. The impact of the airbourne termagant slamming into the armour of his lower leg pushed the lower leg back to a standing position, while the termagant shattered around the plasteel. A plasma pistol shot, haphazardly fired straight down, ensured it didn't move again.

Kedron hadn't seen it on the ground. He was already moving forward again, breaking into a run.

His startled cohort were a couple of beats behind their accelerating leader, but didn't hesitate long.

Within seconds, the entirety of the fifth cohort had broken into a run, moving through the ship at a pace that would have put any un-enhanced human sprinter to shame.

The cohort wasn't hitting anything. But they didn't have to. Their commander was sliding through the tyranids like a hot powersword through butter.

He wasn't commanding. Ordinarily that would be a problem, but these were marines, and Dark Templars specifically. They knew their job, and, more to the point, he was way beyond issuing orders.

A tyranid warrior stepped into the Brother-Centurion's path, deathspitter already levelled. The marine's pace doesn't change, and a muted flash precedes Kedron's shoulder charge.

Brother-Optio Pontius turned the previous corner, eight steps behind the brother-centurion, then stopped, aghast, as the one-armed figure of his brother and leader charged into a tyranid warrior...

Only to see it shudder at the charging man's impact, and then topple to one side, smoking hole in the centre of its torso.

Pontius raised his bolter in his right hand, firing three times in cover as Kedron kept moving forward.

Every sense screamed at Pontius that this was wrong, and that charging after Kedron would only get him, and all those behind him, killed, dying in vain and squandering their lives.

But he knew it wasn't. The Emperor was with them. They were doing His work, and in this, He was protecting them, Pontius was sure.

He had brought them through the Norn Queen further in the past thirty seconds than they had come in the previous ten minutes. The Emperor was with them, and had inspired the Brother-Centurion. Who would have thought that the spirit of the Emperor would take hold of Kedron, of all brothers.

But it had. Kedron was His instrument. Was bringing His wrath on the Devourer. Was...

Throwing his pistol at a Hive Tyrant..?

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Lysander was getting desperate. De Laan was taking more casualties. Time was slipping further out of their control. But there was no back up plan. Other than "fight harder", which, Lysander mused, wasn't really much of a back-up, per se.

Another way of putting it would be to say that the back up plan was to make the first plan work. But that was probably not a true "back-up" plan, either.

In fact, the root of the problem was the absence of capable back-up. The marines that had been tasked to this venture were hideously overstretched. Again. Back-up of any sort would have been highly welcome, at that particular juncture. Who knew, perhaps the Emperor would be merciful, and grant His mercy to them in their hour of need.

Not just the marines' hour of need. They always had hours of need. No, the Imperium, the civilisation constructed by His own hand, needed Him. Need Him to cast His immortal light over them.

'Send us a sign. Show us that we still are your people, that we fight according to your will.'

As if on cue, his comm sounded.

"Lambda lead, this is Herald Lead, over_."_

Lysander fired twice at a tyranid limb emerging around a corner. His second shot hit it, and tore the offending appendage from its owner's body.

"Herald Lead, this is Lambda Lead, over."

"Lambda Lead, _Leonidas_ is requesting through-link, over."

Bondsman-Captain Phillips had something. More bad news, no doubt.

"Acknowledged, Herald Lead. Patch them through."

Lysander heard the sound of the pilot of the Thunderhawk adjusting something, then the chime that signalled the connection establishing. He spoke into the silence.

"_Leonidas_, this is Lambda Lead. Go ahead."

Bondsman-Captain Phillips' voice came clear over the comm, despite the distance. He was talking from more than an astronomical unit away, if he was adherring to the plan. That they could talk at all meant that there was some very serious power-amplification going on... doubtlessly more than was safe.

Lysander stifled a chuckle. What was 'safe' at the moment anyway?

"Lambda Lead, this is _Leonidas. _We have made contact with xeno-echo elements in system. They request assistance, so as to allow them to bring in further xeno-echo echelons. Contact would suggest that following echelons are theatre Imperial equivalent strength, over."

Emperor be praised, Lysander thought. How can that be? He'd just thought the prayer, not even two minutes ago, and the Emperor had provided.

Truly, the Lord of Mankind was with them.

"Acknowledged, _Leonidas._ Assist xeno-echo elements to facilitate arrival of following echelons. Urgency is recommended, over."

"Lambda Lead, be advised that xeno-echo elements have requested Imperial arrival be accelerated to assist xeno-echo arrival, over."

Oh. That was why Phillips was calling.

The Eldar wanted to bring the Imperial fleet in to cover their arrival.

"Standby, _Leonidas_."

Lysander hesitated. The Imperial fleet's return was the last remaining card he had to play. He had planned to play it when the marines had their mission accomplished. Playing it now would lose tens of thousands, possibly hundreds of thousands of lives aboard the Imperial Fleet. More importantly, if too many ships were lost, then even if the marines were successful, the fleet would be unable to drive off the disorganised tyranids, and the shattered tyranid units would swamp the navy anyway.

But the Eldar were here. This was, perhaps, the Emperor himself showing His people that He could use imperfect means to achieve His perfect ends.

Or was He reminding them that xenos were never to be trusted, and to fear the alien, the mutant and the heretic?

As was often the case there was no way of telling. The Emperor's scriptures were full of ambiguity. Why was nothing straightforward?

Another tyranid warrior turned a corner, and Lysander fired again, plasma blast taking its head off its shoulders.

That was one thing that was straightforward. Tyranids were overrunning them, and the whole Emperor-damned planet along with them. They might not actually manage to kill this giant space bug that the Mechanicus called a Norn Queen. If so, then an Eldar fleet might be all that stood between the Imperium and oblivion.

Much as Lysander disliked fighting alongside, let alone trusting, xenos, logic appeared to offer no better option.

Besides, had the Emperor himself not just dropped the very salvation Lysander had prayed for, right into his very lap?

"_Leonidas_, you are cleared to instruct fleet elements to execute. Authentication code lambda two niner lima yankee four zero two."

There was a brief pause, doubtlessly Phillips asking one of his officers if the authentication code was received.

"Acknowledged, Lambda Lead. Emperor be with you."

"And also with you. Lambda Lead, out."

Lysander smiled. The first real smile to touch his face since the _Sword of Lycurgas_ was lost, several months ago.

Eldar were coming. He had prayed to the Lord of Mankind to send a sign, and He sent the Eldar.

Sometimes the universe was a very strange place.

Lysander spoke into the comm again.

"Revinius."

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Revinius was occupied.

He had carved his way through several carnifexes. A feat that the veteran cohort leader had no intention of repeating, if he could avoid it.

He heard his name over the comm, and subconsciously cocked his head, as if to shield his microphone from the wind.

A spike rifle shot ricocheted off his shield, and he swore, just as the comm activated.

"Emperor's teeth. What?"

Lysander's voice came over, loud and clear over the din of Revinius' cohort.

"Reinforcements are coming, Brother. The _Leonidas_ reports Eldar are enroute, in equivalent strength to Imperial units in-theatre."

Revinius spat, and pretended not to be disconcerted when the acidic saliva didn't react to the corridor beneath him.

"Eldar. What in the Emperor's name are we coming to when it takes frelling xenos to pull us out of a frelling hole?"

Someone behind Revinius interrupted the flow of conversation, firing a bolter uncomfortably close to his ear.

"How many did you say they had coming?"

There was another crackle over the comm, and what sounded like plasma fire, before Lysander answered.

"Force equivalent to what we have in theatre."

Revinius was about to counter, then laughed, a deep bark that had two brother-legionnaires looking at him worriedly.

"They're scum, Richard. Not just scum but xenos. I hope you're Emperor-damned sure about this."

Revinius could scarcely believe what he was hearing. It was almost too good to be true. Out of the blue, Eldar turn up, supposedly to help. Revinius only trusted one type of xeno, and that was tyranids... you always knew exactly what they wanted, and they always came at you with that in mind. They'd never double cross you, never cheat you, never turn on you or otherwise abuse your trust. The fact that they wanted to eat you only slightly took away from the charm.

Lysander responded quickly, frustration evident down the line.

"Well what do we do? Open fire on them? Want to fight the Eldar as well as the Tyranids? Because, brother, that doesn't sound like the best plan I've ever heard you come up with. You're normally pretty good with plans, but, to be frank, that one is not good. At all. "

Lysander was frustrated. Revinius was angry.

For all the bluster, however, they both knew that the other was not the source of their mood. The circumstances that the two marines found themselves in were the catalyst, and they both took comfort in that.

Minutes ticked by in a welter of purple blood.

Both marine commanders were beyond tired. Lysander's plasma pistol was down to its last magazine. Revinius' shield was dented, and its power field was starting to fail.

Revinius broke the comm silence first.

"They're coming?"

"They are."

"Whether we want them to or not?"

"Looks that way."

A hormagaunt sprang into one of Revinius' legionnaires, and raised its talons, in time to be cut in half by the giant cohort commander's backhanded slash.

Revinius scowled. At fate, at life, at then spoke again.

"Then they can do the dying for us..."

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In the void between suns, thirty-two ships of the Imperial Navy hung silently, alternating lights and shadows against the starfield.

Admiral Antigonos was dead. Not many were concerned about it in itself (the man had been a despot in every meaningful sense of the word) but he had centralised command to the point where the fleet struggled to operate without him.

The cohesion had died when the Admiral did. Everyone felt better, and no one thought Captain Lysander unjustified in his actions, but the responses were mixed.

Some, notably Captain Jord of the _Mackenay_, thought that the Brother-Captain should be hauled up before a Naval Admiralty Courts Martial, be tried for the murder of a superior officer, and be shot or burnt as a traitor and criminal.

Captain Colefax of the _Twilight Hammer_ thought the opposite, that the man was a hero for taking such a risk in the face of the Admiral's obvious incompetence.

Regardless of what they all thought of the space marine officer, they were all following his orders for the time being, if only because he was the only person who had taken command with a ny degree of pseudo-authority. He'd put forward a workable plan, if only barely, and, more than that, he'd given direction to the fleet, and offered hope, when none had existed before.

So for now, despite widespread misgivings that would probably see an investigation after this campaign was concluded, the Space Marine brother-captain's orders still held the force of law in the fleet.

The whole fleet was holding its breath. Any minute they expected the communication from the _Leonidas _ordering them to return to battle, gambling mightily that the Imperium might yet hold. Word had filtered down. From the messes to the cooks, cooks to the quartermasters, and down to the gun-decks and engine bays.

The _Divine Right_ waited for the go signal. The entire ship, and all those who made it function, were possessed of an unnatural stillness, a straining, as if an unnecessary breath might cause the ship to miss the all important signal.

A rating, tightening something on a gas pipe, dropped a spanner, and it clanged on the metal grating of the deck. More than a dozen heads swivelled, and eyes glared accusingly.

Even the sonorous, dirge like chants of the tech-adepts seemed strangely muted, mechadendrites still in the recycled atmosphere.

Filters hummed, and readouts beeped, but no one spoke.

Across the whole of the ship, no one spoke.

Over thirty thousand souls aboard.

And none of them spoke.

The designated time passed. Five minutes more. Ten minutes.

The bridge officers felt the growing, palpable dread. The campaign hung by a thread. Not because the time for launch was important, but because not making that time meant that something had gone wrong. And the margin for error was so terribly, terribly thin.

Colefax rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. It had been a roll of the dice. Gambling the future of the Imperium on action, or inaction. Either way, a gamble. One that, it seemed, had failed.

Now none of the ship captains wanted to speak first. To speak would break the bubble of denial. Meant acknowledging the magnitude of the catastrophe they were witness to, and accepting that they would have to pass judgement on 22 billion men, women and children. A massacre by nuclear fire, to spare them the agonies of being consumed by the tyranids. And to spare the Imperium the agony of the onslaught of tyranids created from their gene-stock.

Time was now crucial for an entirely different reason.

If Lysander and Revinius failed, then the consumption of the entire planet's ecosystem was only a matter of time. That could not be allowed to occur, come what may. Allowing that would be conceding up to a full quarter of the Ultima Segmentum to the Devourer.

At twenty minutes, Colefax judged that they could wait no longer.

"Lieutenant Hawthorn, prepare message to the _Divine Right_. Request that all captains meet aboard her for coun..."

Hawthorn interrupted excitedly, startling the _Twilight Hammer_'s captain into silence. Ears all over the bridge turned to the communications officer, as he spoke his piece.

"Sir, incoming broadspectrum communication from the _Leonidas_."

"Put it on screen, Lieutenant."

The starfield view from the main screen switched to the bridge of the marine strike cruiser. In comparison to the architecture that was standard throughout the navy, the sight was almost plain. At the very least, it was somewhat spartan, with emphasis apparently being placed on functionality over anything else. Decidedly unconventional as far as Imperial doctrine went. But the white lambda on black prominently emblazoned on the main bulkhead behind the captain clearly displayed the vessel's allegiance. The picture had a slightly ephemeral quality to it, and the image was a little blurry. It was a transmission, rather than an open channel.

"Imperial Fleet, this is the _Leonidas_. Standby to commence fleet action. Be aware single xeno-echo vessel is in system. Xeno ship will be deploying hardware to allow further xeno-echo vessels to arrive in theatre. 30 cruiser-equivalent or greater xeno-echo ships are anticipated arriving in our support. Standby for authentication code. Transmission repeats."

Colefax stared at the transmission as it went again. The ramifications... no. Stick to the orders. Safer that way. Easier that way.

"Lieutenant Hawthorn, forward authentication code to the command chair, if you would."

The man didn't respond verbally, but his hands moving over the controls to his front were his acknowledgment. The code came up on the display in the arm of his command chair.

Lambda 2 9 L Y 4 0 2

It was a match.

Damn.

Colefax had had more than half a mind that it wouldn't be. Colefax had fought Eldar before. By fought, he actually ment tried to fight. As the saying went, one can just as soon try to catch the wind as to bring Eldar to battle.

But now they were coming to battle. Here. Alongside them. He pressed his ship-wide comms button on the arm of his chair.

"All stations, this is the Captain. Prepare for combat warp jump. Standby for time to jump."

It was as if someone had flicked a switch. Which, in many ways he had. The ship came to life around him. Officers reported their responsibilities' state of preparedness. Tech-adepts moved about flipping switches and exchanging information in the strange language of the Mechanicus.

And in the background was a rising hum as the warp engines were brought up to jump levels.

Hawthorn spoke again, voice projecting through and over the din.

"Recieving fleet-wide comms, sir."

"On screen."

The screen filled with the image of the _Divine Right_'s bridge, her captain, Edoaurd Chanlin seated at its centre. There was a pause, doubtlessly while the comms-link was established with other ships.

"Does any captain not acknowledge the authenticity of the orders we have just received?"

Barely a second passed before Captain Jord's distinctively accented voice came over the comms.

"I refute these so called orders! Who is this man that executes our officers, and then consorts with xenos? And now he'd drag us into heresy with him!"

Colefax heard himself defending Lysander, and wondered how his voice could work on autopilot as it did...

"Whether you think what he did is justified or not, we cannot NOT follow. He has given us direction. If we don't follow, then we do nothing, or spend too long working on an alternative, and then we lose. Victory is commemorated, failure merely remembered, and I do not want to be remembered as being captain of a ship that stood by while the hope of the Imperium burned."

"That man is leading us to destruction. He is trusting Eldar. ELDAR! We all know better than that, surely. Eldar 'allies' who turn on us when the fighting is done. Eldar who attack at whim anywhere in the galaxy, only to vanish without a trace. These are the xenos that thatmurderer would have us defend, when an Imperial world and the whole Imperium itself, hangs in the balance."

"He is our commander. He can see what is happening there. And he has given us an order to..."

"He is only our commander because he MURDERED THE ADMIRAL!"

The image on the screen was still that of the _Divine Right_'s bridge. The captain on it seemed moderately irritated by the goings on over his commnet. Colefax and Jord shouted at each other over the open comms, and the bridge crews of every ship in the fleet could hear them.

Colefax started to retort, when the Captain Chanlinpressed the mute button. The man waited until he judged that the two captains would have shut up, then spoke into the silence.

"Interesting as this discussion is, we haven't the time. Seeing as the pair of you are discussing the orders we received, well, I can see you both received them. Has anyone not?"

After a brief pause, the man went on.

"Regardless of what we all think of Brother-Captain Lysander's actions, his plan is what has been agreed on, and his judgement we have determined to be the best chance there is of maintaining the Imperium's control of this area of space. We will leave the rest up to the Inquisition. I will be submitting a full report, and one to the Admiralty also. Until then, he IS in command, and we will follow his orders."

He very obviously released the mute that was preventing Colefx and Jord from talking, before continuing.

"Are there any here who disagree with what I have so far said?"

Silence.

"Very well. As such, under the Imperial Fleet Directive 445-N-609, M36, I am assuming command of the fleet by right of vessel pre-eminence. In Brother-Captain Lysander's absence, I will direct the fleet, and provide tactical control, in accordance with aforementioned directive. Do any here object to this course of action?"

A voice began over the comm, and he muted it.

"Thank you, Captain Jord, your objections will be noted in the log. I emphasise that that objection does not absolve you from carrying out your duty as a captain of the fleet. Anyone else?"

Silence again.

"Good. All captains prepare your vessels for warp jump. We depart in seven minutes. Be aware that the arrival zone may well be hostile. Chanlin out."

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15 minutes later, and several light years distant, Bondsman-Captain Phillips watched the 41-ship

Imperial Fleet drop into warp, winking into existence with a silence that belied the colossal energies that were being released. The relief on board the _Leonidas_ was keenly felt. With the Imperial fleet here, the Tyranids could be held until the Eldar arrived... then, outnumbered, the tyranids would be driven off.

"Eldar vessel, this is the _Leonidas_. Accompany fleet advance towards inner system. Deploy warp gate as planned. Please acknowledge."

The Eldar did more than that, with the strange ship broadcasting on open channel to the fleet, who heard its eerie voice speak through their systems. It almost sounded as if it was in their minds, rather than their ears.

"Humans of the Imperial Navy, this is the _otIarstill,_ warship of the Halle Iesu craftworld. We are here tasked to prevent your loss of this system to the tyranids. We have judged that the fall of this planet would not be in Eldar interests."

There was a pause, no more than a heartbeat, then the almost musical voice carried on.

"The _Leonidas_ has instructed us to shadow your advance, and then deploy our warp gate. We intend to comply. The deployment of the warp gate will allow further Eldar starships to arrive, and conduct orbital insertion operations in assistance of human soldiers on the planet's surface."

Another two beats, the ship pausing to allow the slower human minds to process the words.

"It would suit neither the Eldar nor the Imperium to engage in hostilities. The future holds on a knife edge, and all are crucial here and now. Time waits for none, and brings oblivion closer."

Captain Chanlin prepared to respond, weighing his words as he balanced the galaxy on his answer. He opened his mouth, but was cut off by his sensor operator.

"Sir, we are reading multiple warp signatures, different vectors, all across the system."

"How many?"

"Analysing."

Seconds ticked by as the man's fingers danced over the control panel.

"Ten tyra... fifteen. Thirty. Forty. Forty seven tyranid bioships have entered the system, sir." The repressed panic was evident in hs voice.

"Tyranid fleet elements are plotting an intercept course."

Chanlin was aghast. Forty seven additional tyranid bioships, now totalling over eighty tyranid heavy ships in-system, to 41 Navy and 2 Marine ships, barely half of them cruisers or greater. One of his bridge officers breathed out his words, horror leaking from his voice.

"By the Emperor, eighty three bioships. How in the Emperor's name..."

The question died unsaid, but no unheard. But Captain Chanlin had his opening. The sliver of hope amidst the despair.

"Yes, lieutenant. In the Emperor's name."

Chanlin's tone changed, steel sliding in where none had been, eyes locked on the sensor screen, red lights flickering with suppressed malice.

"Signal the fleet. All hands to battlestations. Every man is to do his duty. His will be done. Stand firm in that knowledge. Now, and forever, His will be done."

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Footnote (from Human-Eldar reproduction comparison).

98,516,241,848,729,600, if you want to be precise... 60 year life expectancy, 4 offspring surviving to reproduce per couple and 20 years per generation, further assuming gender parity. At 50 generations for 1000 years, well, that's what the maths say... Figured the parameters sounded right for an Imperial Hive World... I was pretty staggered when I crunched the numbers all the way...


End file.
